


Where the Light Won't Find You

by EveryDarkCorner



Category: DCU, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Branding, Child Murder, Consensual Underage Sex, Incest, Jason Todd is Dead, M/M, Murder, Needles, Oral Sex, Past Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Verbal Abuse, dick and slade working together, grieving dick, set after trouble in tokyo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 67,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryDarkCorner/pseuds/EveryDarkCorner
Summary: Robin knows it's wrong, but he can't stop.  Suffering with the raw wound of Jason's recent murder, with Starfire off-world and his friends distant, he only feels alive when he's with Slade.  And when a string of murders connects them - the victims dressed as Robin, branded with Slade's insignia - Robin and Slade must work together to find the killer, before both their reputations are ruined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Planning for this to be a long fic, so I hope ya'll like it! Will update later this week, so I have time for edits. x

The mission had gone to hell, and Robin was loving every second of it.

               He ducked lower behind the crate, wincing as bullets crashed through the wall overhead.  The crate thrummed against his back with each hit.  Whatever was inside must’ve been sturdy, to keep taking bullets for him.  Thank god.

               ‘Stop, stop!’  The voice echoed through the warehouse, low but obviously female, with a thick Russian accent.  ‘You’re wasting bullets!’

               Gradually, the gunfire ceased.  Robin let out a breath, skimming over his utility belt, searching …

               ‘I’m sorry, little boy,’ the woman called.  ‘My men, they have happy triggers.  But you can come out now, I tell them don’t shoot.’

               ‘Who are you?’ Robin called over the crate.  He hadn’t missed the ‘little boy’.

               A moment’s silence.  Then: ‘I would be a fool to give my name to a superhero.  Even a little one.’

               Robin’s eye twitched.  It didn’t matter anyway.  He read up on Anna Petrov before he left the Tower.  She had a pretty impressive résumé—at least for a certain clientele.  Smuggling, fraud, trafficking everything from drugs to guns to people.  In her photograph she had platinum blonde hair and a soft, rosy-cheeked smile, which seemed to say, ‘Me, officer?  I’ve never seen that sack of cocaine in my life …’

               And right now she was barking in Russian at her eight lackeys, all of whom had their handguns trained on Robin’s crate.  Robin’s Russian extended about as far as ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’ with a bonus, ‘Do you speak English?’  Still, he gathered she wasn’t ordering him a coffee and a cupcake.

               He dug in his utility belt and drew out what looked like a glass marble, its surface glossy-black.

               ‘You know,’ Anna Petrov called, her voice once again soft and sweet, ‘I met the other Robin in Gotham last year.  He was a good boy.’

               Robin went cold.

               _Jason._

               In an instant, the strength drained from his muscles.  His mind went to static.  He tried to take a breath, and choked.  He couldn’t move—something was crushing his chest.

               A dark figure moved somewhere above him, barely visible in the rafters.

               Like the snap of an elastic band, his strength returned.  And now it was hot and sharp and _furious_.  Teeth gritted, Robin tossed the marble out the side of the crate.

               As it rolled, a hologram shimmered into life—a recorded image of Robin running, his black cape swirling behind him.

               ‘Shoot!’ Anna Petrov screamed.  ‘Shoot him!’

               The gunfire drowned her out.  Robin heard the first shot, leaped round the other side of the crate, and lunged for Anna.  Swinging his fist up, he caught her hard across one rosy cheek, and Anna fell back with a scream.

               Spinning on his toes, Robin faced the gunmen—some still shooting where the decoy vanished behind another crate, some just turning to face the real Robin.

               The dark figure dropped down among them.

               There was a moment of stillness, as if the room as whole were taking a deep breath.

               Then the figure snatched a pistol from one of the turning gunmen, and shot him in the foot.  The gunman collapsed with a shriek.  Then the next and the next, dropping like stones with each clean shot.

               The dark figure turned.

               Robin met Slade’s single, cool grey eye.

               He frowned.  ‘You could’ve dropped in sooner.’

               Slade’s eye narrowed behind his mask—not in irritation, but as if he were smirking.  He stepped out, setting his foot on one of the gunmen’s dropped pistols.  The gunman reaching for it sagged, cursing in Russian as Slade casually kicked the gun away.  ‘But you were doing so well.’

               Rolling his eyes, Robin turned to Anna Petrov—

               Who rolled to her feet, scooping up the pistol Slade kicked aside.  She staggered back, shoulders hunched, gripping the gun in both hands.  It wavered from Slade to Robin.

               ‘How inconsiderate,’ Slade murmured.  ‘And after you promised not to shoot him.’

               A crackle went down Robin’s spine, like a warning flare, and he knew without needing to look when Slade was going to move.  He leaped at the same time and they separated, each diving around Anna in opposite directions.

               A gunshot burst through the warehouse, but Anna’s hands shook and she staggered at the recoil,  missing both of them wildly.

 _She’s not used to firearms,_ Robin thought.  _She has lackeys for that._

               Anna stumbled, turning, head whipping back and forth in the instant she had to decide where to shoot next—Robin or Slade?

               Too slow.  Robin got up behind her, crouched and swung his leg out low to take out her feet, just as Slade sent a punch that could crack concrete into her sternum.

               For a moment, Anna sailed up, and seemed to dangle like a puppet on thin air.  Then she fell back with a crash.  She lay on her back, eyes wide, wheezing.  She dropped the pistol to clutch at her chest.

               Robin winced.  Broken ribs _hurt_.

               As Slade advanced on Anna, Robin whipped out his communicator.  At a touch, it dialled a familiar signal.  A tiny red light flashed on screen, and he snapped it shut.  ‘Cops’ll be here any minute.’

               Slade dropped into a crouch beside Anna, who stared up at him with huge eyes.  The rosy pink was gone from her cheeks.  As Slade reached out, she lifted a shaking hand to feebly swat him away.  Slade ignored her.  He dug in her coat pocket, and pulled out a tiny black square of plastic.

               ‘That’s fine,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I’ve got what I came for.’

               Sirens wailed nearby, growing louder, and Robin watched as Slade straightened, tucking square of plastic in his belt.  _Why doesn’t he run already?_   Robin fidgeted from foot-to-foot, chewing the inside of his cheek.

               But Slade walked calmly to Robin’s side, and set a hand on his shoulder.  Robin suppressed a shiver, and put the sudden rush of heat down to a late adrenaline rush.  He kept his eyes on the warehouse door.

               ‘In a moment then, Robin,’ Slade murmured.

               Robin nodded tersely.  _Go already.  If they see …_

               Slade lingered, hand still on Robin’s shoulder, even as the red and blue lights flickered through the bullet holes in the wall.  Robin could feel every thump of his heart in his throat.  But when he finally glanced up, Slade dropped his hand.

               He fixed his gaze back on the door, and forced himself not to turn.  But he listened—to the echo of Slade’s footsteps behind him, and the whoosh of the grappling hook, and the muffled down of someone clambering up onto the roof.

               Outside, tires screeched and voices barked, and a dozen men and women in blue uniforms burst through the door.  While they scrambled to Anna Petrov and her bleeding lackeys, a grey-haired policeman approached Robin.

               ‘Standard fare?’  His voice had the low, creaky growl of a three-packs-a-day man.

               ‘Pretty much.’  Robin shrugged.

               ‘Well,’ he nodded as two cops hauled Anna up, ‘we can take it from here.’

               Robin smiled faintly, and snuck away.  The cops never kept him around for long.  They were well used to answering the Titans’ emergency signal after Clayface smashed up a street, or Mad Mod left a handful of civilians gibbering by the roadside.  Catching the bad guys was the Titans’ job.  Patching them up and shipping them to Belle Reve, Robin gladly left to the authorities.

               When Robin got up on the roof, he wasn’t surprised to find Slade lingering there.  One leg stretched out, the other curled up with his elbow resting on it, he watched the scene below with what Robin imagined was a smirk.  The red and blue lights flashed off the copper half of his mask.

               ‘I must say, I’m impressed.’  He turned the square of black plastic he’d taken from Anna between his thumb and forefinger as Robin crouched beside him.  ‘Then again, I usually am.’

               Robin waited for him to mention Anna’s taunt, and let out a breath when he didn’t.  ‘What is it?’  He nodded at the plastic.

               ‘A memory card.’

               ‘What’s on it?’

               ‘That’s my business.’  Slade tucked the memory back in his utility belt—fast enough that Robin didn’t catch which pocket he’d put it in.  Noticing Robin’s scowl, Slade added, ‘This was the agreement.’

               Robin grunted.  It _was_ the agreement.  Slade helped take down the bad guys, and he got to steal whatever he wanted from them.

 _At least it was a memory card,_ he thought, _and not a gun._

               A smarter part of him knew Slade could do way more damage with a memory card than a gun.

               ‘Why?’ Slade said, low and quiet.  ‘Can you think of a _better_ way of compensating me?’

               That crackle went down Robin’s spine again.  He closed his fists.  Clenched his teeth.  ‘I’m not gonna be your apprentice.’

               Robin shot him a sharp look.  _Sure you wouldn’t.  Because there’s some other way you want me to ‘compensate’ you._   His stomach squirmed, and his face was burning, and he swallowed hard and told himself it meant nothing.

               He spent every night with Slade in secret, and it meant nothing.  Slade was useful.  He was fast, and smart, and he fought like a lion on steroids.  Slade got jobs _done_.

               And the fact Robin hadn’t told the Titans also meant nothing.  They’d freak.  And they didn’t need anything else to freak out over these days.

               And the way Robin’s head cleared when he was with Slade—the way the clouds of fog and shadow and muck seemed to just blow away and he could finally, _finally_ focus and feel his heart beat and his muscles ache and his lungs burst for oxygen—that meant nothing either.  Slade was a villain.  What Robin was doing was dangerous.  It was bound to wake him up.

               Slade rose smoothly to his feet.  ‘Tomorrow night, then?’

               Robin swallowed down a hard lump in his throat.  ‘No.  This was the last night.’

               ‘You say that every night.’

               ‘I mean it.  I shouldn’t be working with you.’

               ‘If not for me,’ Slade said with soft coldness, ‘you’d be dead in that alley.’

               Bile rose in Robin’s throat.  _Tarmac pressing against his face—black boots stamping on his fingers—smacking into his ribs—blood in his mouth—_

               With a shudder, Robin folded his arms.  ‘I know.  But this is the last night.’

               Slade stared at him—a stare that went right through him like he was made of glass.  ‘In case you change your mind, I left you a gift.  It’s on your motorcycle.’

               Robin narrowed his eyes.  ‘What—’

               ‘I’m not asking anything in return,’ Slade said over him, as if reading his mind.  ‘It’s body armour.  If you’re going to keep getting shot at, you ought to wear some.’  He smirked—Robin couldn’t see it, but he _felt_ it.  ‘And take off that cape.  They only get in your way.’

               Hunching, Robin let his cape slip forward over his shoulders, hiding his body.  ‘I like my cape.’

               Slade didn’t argue—in a few short steps, he slipped into the darker shadows and the end of the roof, then disappeared over the edge.  Robin waited, watching the sirens light up the street like fireworks.  He wasn’t allowed to chase Slade.  That was also part of the agreement.

               When Slade was definitely gone, he slipped over the roof, and ducked through the shadows back to the alley where he’d stashed his motorcycle.  The metal glinted faintly—the sun was coming up, grey light pooling between the buildings.

               As promised, a package was balanced on the seat.  Robin opened it warily, and picked out the contents.  He raised his eyebrows.  _Not bad._   Batman wore armour like this: lightweight and not too thick, moving easily as Robin twisted it.  When he pressed his gloved fingers in, they made soft indents.  But when he struck it with his knuckles, they cracked against the material—suddenly hard as steel.

               It was a pricey gift.  Whatever Slade had said, he obviously wanted _something_ in return.  A favour or a promise or a quiet word …

               Or else it was a trap.  Robin remembered Terra’s armour, welded to her skin, controlling her every move.  His skin crawled.

               He should just throw it away.  Give it back.  Not risk it.

               He thought of Slade’s hand on his shoulder.  He’d almost felt warmth through his glove.

               Taking a slow breath, Robin wrapped the armour back up, swung his leg over his motorcycle, and set the package on his lap.  He’d test it thoroughly at the Tower before he put it on—or even touched it with bare skin.  But he’d keep it.  One way or another.

               The sun crept higher, and he tried to ignore his dry mouth.

               It meant nothing.  It was just a gift.  Or a trick.  Or a trap.

               And the fact Robin spent last night with his face buried in his pillow, voice muffled as he let his hands trail down below his stomach, murmuring Slade’s name behind a locked door—that didn’t mean anything, either.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin was halfway to the Tower when his communicator beeped.  Pulling over on a quiet street, he lifted the visor on his helmet and flipped it open.

               The sender was a generic Jump PD address.  No one he recognised.

_Problem, Jackson Avenue._

               Only Robin’s name sat at the top of the message.  Why hadn’t Jump PD sent it to the other Titans?  Frowning, Robin stuffed the communicator back in his belt and lowered his visor with a snap.  Jackson Avenue wasn’t far.  He could check it out and still be back at the Tower before the others woke up.

               When he got to Jackson Avenue, it was already cordoned off with yellow tape.  He parked his bike, set Slade’s package under his helmet on the seat, and ducked under the tape, ignoring the stares from civilians hurrying to work, or heading home from the nightshift.

               A cluster of blue uniforms waited in the doorway of Big Rico’s Pizzeria.  They looked up as Robin approached.  One of them was the grey-haired police officer from the warehouse earlier that night.

               He fidgeted with his cuffs as Robin approached.  ‘The other Titans … ?’

               ‘It’s just me.’

               The officer grimaced.  ‘Maybe that’s for the best.  Usually we wouldn’t call you for a homicide.’

               ‘No supervillains?’

               In Gotham, Batman took care of whatever criminals he could lay his hands on, working unofficially with Jim Gordon on every crime under the sun.  In Jump, the Titans had a different arrangement: normal crime was solved by the normal police.  Supervillains, metahumans, aliens—and what Jump’s chief of police dubbed ‘weird shit’ in his official report—went to the Titans.

               ‘Not as far as we can tell.  It’s just …’  The officer coughed, tugging his collar.  ‘See for yourself.’

               Robin slipped past him.  The flock of uniforms parted for him, revealing a sheet of grey tarp laid on the pavement.  Robin closed his hands into fists.  _You’ve seen bodies before._   But his breath was short, sharp.  He glanced up at one of the officers, who bent and peeled the sheet back.

               Vomit rolled up Robin’s throat, and he barely swallowed it down.

               The kid was dressed in his uniform.

               One of the cheap knock-offs you could buy in stores at Halloween, the R badge peeling at the edges, the mask barely held on with flimsy white elastic.  His skin was bone-white, the corners of his lips blue.

               There was no pool of blood, or broken neck, or knife sticking out of him.  He looked like a ghost.  Robin broke out in goose bumps, despite the mild morning sun, and turned away.  The officer drew the tarp back up, laying it carefully, like he was tucking the kid into bed.

               The grey-haired officer came up by Robin’s shoulder.  ‘We thought it might be a threat.  Thought you should know.’

               Robin nodded stiffly.

               ‘I can give you a ride to the station,’ the officer said, ‘or the Tower.’

               ‘I’m fine.’  Turning, Robin started away.  ‘Thanks for calling.’

               The officer stumbled to keep pace with him.  ‘Sure Robin, you take care.  And hey—I’m sorry about the other kid.  The Robin in Gotham.  We heard, you know?  We’re all sorry.’

               ‘Thanks.’  Robin realised he was glaring at the floor and looked up.  ‘I’m gonna get back to my team.  Can you send me the reports on this case?’

               ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

               Nodding his thanks, Robin strode away, slipping under the yellow tape and back to his motorcycle.

               The kid was wearing _his_ uniform.  Dick Greyson’s uniform.

               But every time Robin closed his eyes, he saw Jason’s face instead.

 

* * *

 

_‘Jason, this is Dick.’_

_Jason’s eyes flicked down and back up, the movement exaggerated and deliberate.  He arched one eyebrow, unimpressed.  ‘Is your name Dick or is that just what he calls you?’_

_Robin narrowed his eyes, casting the barest glance at Bruce, standing over Jason’s shoulder.  ‘Pleasure to meet you, too.’_

_Sighing, Bruce sat on the antique sofa and slid a hand down his face.  ‘Would it kill you two to be civil?’_

_‘What happened?’ Jason said, ignoring Bruce utterly.  ‘Bruce kick you out for being too slow?’_

_For a moment, Robin’s temper boiled, heat rising from his toes to the top of his head.  Then he saw the tiny, wavering smirk on Jason’s face.  The way he stood with his feet apart, arms folded, trying too hard to look tough in Bruce’s plush living room.  So he was cocky, was he?  Well, Bruce would soon beat that out of him.  Until then …_

_‘Nah.’  Robin waved a hand, putting on a veneer of easy relaxation.  ‘I was running rings around him.  It was embarrassing—I mean, Batman outstripped by Robin?  No good.’  He leaned on his favourite armchair, grinning at the slow-dawning horror on Bruce’s face.  ‘Good for you, Dad.  Glad you found someone slower.’_

_Jason spluttered.  ‘Screw you!  I can outrun anyone, any day.’_

_‘Good for you,’ Robin said, in the high, patronising voice he might use on a proudly potty-trained toddler._

_‘Dick …’ Bruce groaned, but Jason drowned him out._

_‘Get your ass down here any day of the week.  I can score thirteen on the bleep test and still kick you in your smug damn face.’_

_Robin kept grinning.  ‘I’ll do that.’_

_Snarling like a wildcat, Jason turned and stormed away.  Robin heard stomping footsteps, then the slam of a door._

_Bruce sighed.  ‘Did you have to piss him off on purpose?’_

_Flopping sideways in the armchair, Robin shrugged.  ‘He likes me.’_

 

* * *

 

Robin slipped into the Tower, muscles aching and twitching, and waited for the guilt to catch up to him.  He hadn’t told the Titans about Slade.  He _couldn’t_ tell them.  It was last time, anyway …

_Don’t think about it._

               He sank against the elevator wall as it rose up the side of the Tower, showing a glittering view of the morning sea.  And he didn’t think about it.  And instead, his mind sharpened into a spear, and found a new target.

_‘I met the other Robin in Gotham last year…’_

               Anna Petrov’s taunt came back like a punch.  Robin hunched.  A lump rose in his throat, like he’d swallowed a rock.  _Jason._   Pressure built in his brow, like the first crackles of thunder before a storm.  The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open.

_Jason’s dead._

               Tears burned his eyes, but it was only a short way to his room.  The others would still be asleep.  He could run, and hide, and compose himself before they got up.  He lurched into the living room—and froze.

               Raven looked up from the sofa.

               ‘Ra-Raven?’ he croaked.

               She stretched out her curled legs.  ‘Hey.’

               Robin slipped his cape forward to hide his scuffed clothes, and Slade’s package.  He stank of gunpowder.  Could she tell from over there?  ‘You’re up early.’  His gaze flicked to the large, black screen by the window.  His heart stuttered.  ‘Did Starfire call?’

               Regret flashed over Raven’s face like a passing shadow.  ‘No.  Sorry, Robin.’

               A weight filled his chest, almost too heavy to hold.  Robin swallowed.  ‘It’s just—it’s been a while.’

               ‘Tamaran’s a long way away,’ Raven said softly.  She started to say, ‘And—’, but seemed to think the better of it.

               Robin bowed his head.  _And she has a war to fight._   He couldn’t blame Starfire for leaving.  If brutal civil war broke out in Gotham, he’d fly home in an instant.  But still, missing Starfire was a constant, empty pain.

 _She could’ve come back for Jason’s funeral,_ he thought bitterly, and instantly regretted it.  Starfire wanted to come.  She couldn’t help being trapped in some dugout billions of miles away.  None of this was her fault.

               But god, he wanted her back.

               Raven stared at Robin, pitying and unblinking.

               ‘So,’ Robin said, ‘why are you up so late?’

               Smiling faintly, Raven held up a thick black novel.  ‘I found a good book.  You?’

               ‘I needed to get out.  Get some air.’  _With Slade._   Robin cringed, and tried to cover it with a cough.

 _It was the last night,_ he thought sternly. _The last time._   Sure, he’d struck out on his own once and he’d failed, and if not for Slade—

               But that didn’t matter.  He didn’t _owe_ Slade anything.  He didn’t need him.

               Raven’s brow lowered in quiet sympathy.  ‘Jason?’

               Robin winced.

               ‘It’s okay, Robin,’ Raven said.  ‘Anything you need …’

               Robin wasn’t going to say anything, but the words burst out without any interruption from his brain.  ‘He was my little brother—’

               His voice cracked and the pressure in his skull mounted to a stabbing pain, and he stopped—because it was that or burst into tears.

               Raven got halfway to her feet, but he put up a hand to stop her.

               ‘I’m not—I’m all right.  I just need a shower.  And sleep.’

               For a long time, Raven simply stared.  Then she let out a slow breath, as if Robin was a bomb and she was waiting for him to explode.  ‘Okay.  Anything you need—from any of us—you only have to say.’

_I need Starfire here.  I need to stop screwing around with Slade.  I need Jason to not be dead._

               But Raven already looked uncomfortable enough, her words stiff, like she’d rehearsed them.  She wasn’t good at this, and Robin knew it.  Raven didn’t share feelings.  That was Starfire’s job.  She was trying so hard to help, it hurt to watch.

               Robin smiled, the effort agonising.  ‘Thanks, Raven.’

 

* * *

 

Robin showered, and hit his bed like a rock.

               An hour and a half later, he gave himself credit for trying, and got back up.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired.  Hell, he was always tired.  He just didn’t _sleep_.  It was as if his brain had forgotten how.

 _I guess Jason’s doing all my sleeping for me now._   The sawing pain in his chest was familiar, but didn’t hurt any less.

               It probably didn’t help his room still stank of incense, even after he’d kept the window open for days to flush it out.  Surely no one could sleep through that.  A half-melted black candle poked out from the back of his bookshelf, where he must’ve accidentally kicked it away.  Raven went ballistic when she realised he’d taken them.  He thought he gave them all back.

               No point keeping them.  Robin snorted.  As if a few black candles and some incense could drag Jason back from the dead.

               He could hear voices from the living room, so he headed that way.  While Cyborg and Beast Boy bickered in the kitchen, Raven floated cross-legged by the windows, eyes closed.

               He drifted over and nudged her arm.  ‘You meditating or just taking a nap?’

               Raven opened one eye to give him a filthy look.  ‘With those two in the room?  Neither.’

               Some of the weight lifted from Robin’s chest and he chuckled, side-stepping just in time to avoid the pancake that flew from the kitchen.  It splatted on the window and slid down, leaving a trail of grease.

               Robin grabbed it before it hit the ground and tossed it back at Cyborg and Beast Boy, not minding which of them it hit.  He put on his best _I Am Team Leader And You Will Do As I Say_ voice.  ‘Guys, don’t waste food.’

               Cyborg caught the pancake and scarfed it down in a single, stomach-turning gulp.

               For a moment, Robin didn’t feel like he’d spent all night with Slade; didn’t feel his body screaming for rest and his mind full of fog, and his whole world just _missing_ a fundamental piece.  He was home.

               Then Cyborg’s human eye roved over him critically.  ‘You eaten yet today?  Or this week?’

               Robin winced.  He’d made a mistake.  The last few days, he got up early enough to say he’d already eaten.  That excuse wouldn’t fly now.  ‘Later,’ he mumbled.

               Cyborg’s expression didn’t change.  ‘I’m making pancakes now.’

               The room fell still, the only sound the soft sizzling of pancake batter on hot oil.  Beast Boy’s eyes were on Robin, huge and nervous, and he could feel Raven’s stare from behind him.

               They’d noticed.  Robin hadn’t meant to let it show—hadn’t meant to worry them—when his appetite shrivelled.  His friends were sharper than he’d given them credit for.  ‘I’m not hungry.’

               ‘Dude, you’re a rake.’  Cyborg’s tone was gentle, but his stare was stern.

               If he refused, he’d only worry them more.  Robin sighed.  ‘OK, yeah, pancakes sound good.  Thanks.’

               Snorting, Cyborg turned back to his frying pan.  ‘I’m making you a double helping.’

               Beast Boy leaned over the counter.  ‘And _I_ am making you tofu pancakes.  And they will be _better_.’

               Groaning, Robin turned to Raven for support.

               ‘I’ll eat them if you will.’  Raven’s tone was light—as close to playful as she ever got—but her eyes were hard, and said, _I will pin you down and force-feed you if I have to._

               Robin sighed.  ‘Yeah, fine.’

               In the kitchen, Cyborg and Beast Boy went back to their friendly bickering, and Raven went back to her meditating, which left Robin to stand there alone, or do some work, or lie down and die.

               ‘Ugh, BB, you got tofu in my pancakes.’

               ‘So now they’ll be good pancakes.’

               Robin considered the benefits of that last option for a moment.  Lie down and die.  It sounded more peaceful than death by pancake.

               ‘No one likes your dumb tofu pancakes!’

               ‘I’ll have you know _everyone_ at karaoke _loves_ my tofu pancakes.  Also my tofu burgers, my tofu waffles, and my singing.’

               But Bruce would miss him.  And then the Teen Titans would be two members down.  And there’d be no one to beat their heads together when the word ‘tofu’ was spoken ten times in less than forty seconds.  Sighing, Robin drifted over to the console and typed his password.  Work, then.

               ‘Your karaoke groupies are crazy.’  Cyborg sniffed, expertly flipping his pancake.  ‘I can’t believe you found a club in Jump after we got back from Japan.’

               Robin watched the loading bar on the screen with disinterest, then jumped when Cyborg slammed a full plate down next to him.

               ‘They are not groupies!’  Beast Boy attempted to flip his own pancake.  It stuck to the ceiling.  He stared at it mournfully, then turned back to Cyborg.  ‘Well, okay, maybe Daisy … and Clarissa.  So, like, two groupies.’  He frowned.  ‘And I think Britney only hangs around because she wants Robin to show up.’  He looked at Robin, waggling his eyebrows.

               Robin turned from his emails—the report on that homicide had come through already—to stare back, deadpan.  Cyborg nudged him with a fork.

               ‘Eat your pancakes.  Or I’ll make you eat whatever BB scrapes off the ceiling.’

               Rolling his eyes, Robin took the fork and shovelled down a few mouthfuls.  He had to admit, they were good.  Tofu and all.  He gave Cyborg a smile, and Cyborg grinned back.

               Scooping in another mouthful of pancakes, Robin turned and opened the report.  It was brief—no time for an autopsy yet—but included photographs from the scene.  Robin steeled himself as he scrolled past them, but somehow the black-and-white snapshots didn’t have the impact of the real body.

               Except the last one.

               The fork slipped from Robin’s fingers, syrup turning sour on his tongue.  They’d taken the kid’s shirt off to inspect his body.  He was so pale it looked unreal, like a ghost in a horror movie.  But on the left of chest, where Robin’s badge usually rested, a mark was stamped into him.  The skin around it was puckered and bruised.  Branded.

               Branded with a sharp, twisting S.

               Robin’s heart stilled, cold and heavy as stone.

               _Slade._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hundred thank yous to my graceful editor Mana, who is the reason this chapter ended on a cliffhanger. It's all her fault, you guys. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Robin waited until he was off the island to call Slade, his fist shaking around the communicator.  It rang for too long, then cut out.  He called again.  Again.

               _Murderer._

               So Slade saved his ass—once.  How could Robin even _think_ that changed anything?  How could he be so _stupid_?

               Slade didn’t answer, and his stomach coiled.  Robin tightened his fist around the communicator so hard he thought he’d crush it.  After the whole thing with Trigon.  After Beast Boy said Slade knew where Terra was, and he wasn’t gunning for her—

               After Robin, like a naïve _child_ , gave him the benefit of the doubt.

               The communicator rang out.  Snarling, he twisted on his heel, and drew his arm back ready to throw the damn thing into the sea—

               It rang.

               Robin fumbled, flipping it open.

               Slade stared coolly at him.  ‘Robin—’

               ‘The old place,’ Robin snarled.  ‘Now.’

               Slade’s eye widened, but Robin snapped the communicator closed.

               Rage fuelled Robin all the way across the city, down through the sewers and into the dust and dark.

               The metal grille creaked as Robin stepped on it.  Vaulting the rail, he slipped to the floor in one smooth jump.  Only now did he wonder if Slade would even come.  It wasn’t exactly an enticing call.  No context, no explanation.  Just Robin.  Boiling with anger.  Ready to kill.

               Footsteps echoed from the other entrance, soft and unhurried.  Robin spun to face Slade as he entered the room, drawing his bo staff and extending it with a click.

               ‘Robin.’  Slade inclined his head.  ‘You seem agitated.  Something I can help with?’

               Robin bared his teeth in a snarl.  ‘Don’t play dumb, Slade.  You killed a _kid_.  How—’  He stopped short of asking _how could you?_   This was _Slade_.  Swallowing, Robin dropped into a fighting stance.  ‘I’m taking you down.’

               But Slade stood idly, hands clasped comfortably behind him.  ‘This would be the thirteen year old boy found on Jackson Avenue this morning?’

               A weight hit Robin’s stomach, like he’d swallowed a lead ball.  Just thirteen.  He was younger than Beast Boy.  Younger than Jason.

               ‘Wearing my uniform,’ Robin growled, ‘with your symbol stamped on him.’

               Slade’s eye widened.  He loosed his hands, allowing them to hang by his sides.  ‘My symbol?’

               Robin stopped.  Surely—surely Slade wasn’t going to pull the _innocent_ card?  Slade didn’t pretend to be innocent.  Slade gloated.  Slade smirked and prowled and made vague, terrifying threats.  He didn’t stick his hands up and say, ‘What, _me_ , officer?  What did _I_ do?’

               ‘The letter S,’ Robin spat, ‘branded into his chest.’  He tightened his grip on the bo staff, taking a step forward.  ‘You’re going to pay.’

               Slade stared, cold and unrepentant.  ‘That boy was killed last night.’

               Another step closer.  ‘Yes.’

               ‘Robin.  I was with you last night.’

               Robin went cold.  He stopped.  ‘But—’

               Finally Slade moved, not closer or backing away, but circling Robin slowly.  ‘I’ve killed people, Robin.  I make no secret of that.  But branding them with my signature?  I’m not the type to leave a calling card.  I don’t like to be traced.  No one should know that better than you.’

               Turning slowly to track Slade’s movements, Robin grimaced.  Even when Slade intentionally left clues for him to pick up, when he was scouting for an apprentice, Robin drove himself near-crazy trying to piece them together.  And that was Slade making it _easy_.  When he wanted to disappear, he disappeared.

               ‘So what?  You’re saying you’ve been framed?’  Robin took a half-step back as Slade glided closer—and then he lunged.

               He brought his bo staff down towards Slade’s head, but Slade snapped his arm up, and the staff bounced off his armoured wrist.  Robin dodged two swift punches, his body moving automatically in this familiar dance of sweeps and grabs and kicks.  He slipped under Slade’s arm, bringing his bo staff sideways across his legs.  Slade darted forward, spinning fast to meet Robin’s next blow.  His foot came up—

               —and kicked the bo staff out of Robin’s hands.

               Robin staggered.  Too slow—he was much too slow.  His body still ached from last night, and his head was buzzing with exhaustion, and only now did he realise how badly he was out of breath.  He needed to back off.  Get some space.  Breathe.  Think.

               Robin coiled and sprang.  But before he could land his roll, collect the staff and stand, Slade caught his foot.

               He pulled Robin back sharply, and Robin yelped as his shoulder hit the ground.  He kicked up with his other foot, caught Slade’s fingers and twisted his foot free.  When he scrambled up, his back hit cracked glass.

               The screens: meters high, once showing the probes coursing through each of the Titan’s bodies.  Now blank.

               Slade swept in like a hawk landing on a mouse.  He caught Robin’s first punch, then grabbed his other hand before Robin could even curl it into a fist.  Drawing Robin’s arms over his head, he closed both wrists in one broad hand.

               ‘Let me go!’  Robin kicked, but Slade pressed in close—too close—and he couldn’t get the momentum to do any damage.  Robin arched his back against the screen.  ‘Let me go.’

               ‘I am not your enemy this time, Robin.’  Slade drew his name out slowly.  ‘Hear me out.’

               ‘Murderer,’ Robin spat, then hissed as Slade tightened his grip on his wrists.  Bones ground together.  Gritting his teeth, Robin slumped.

               ‘You truly believe I had time last night to kidnap the boy, brand him, kill him—without leaving a mark, according to my sources—then dress him in your uniform and leave him on the street?’ Slade hissed.  ‘I thought you were trained by the world’s greatest detective.’

               Robin said nothing, his jaw clenched.  His whole world had narrowed down to the glass pressing in his back, and Slade gripping his wrists.  Slade’s knee digging into his thigh.  Slade’s mask almost touching his nose.

               Blood pounded in Robin’s ears, and he could feel his legs shaking and Slade’s breath on his skin, and he really, _really didn’t want to think about it._

               ‘I have no motive for killing a child,’ Slade said.  ‘Whoever did this intended to send a message, to both of us.’  Slade’s voice lowered to a soft whisper.  ‘Would you like to guess that message, Robin?’

               Robin could barely guess his own name.  He felt like he was falling.  Or catching on fire.  He tried to twist his hands, but Slade’s grip was like steel.

               A kid dressed in his uniform.  With Slade’s S hidden underneath.  Like a secret.

               The answer hit him like a bullet in the gut.  His legs sagged, and for a moment Slade was all that held him up.

               ‘They know.  They know about … about us working together.’

               Slade tilted his head.  ‘They know.’

               ‘We have to stop,’ Robin said quickly.  He tugged his hands, but Slade kept hold.  ‘Let me go—I have to leave—if they know we’re here together—’

               ‘If they already know, what harm does this do?’  But Slade finally released Robin’s wrists and stepped back, and Robin sank back against the broken screen with a soft groan of relief.  ‘If we part ways, we never find out who killed the boy.  And I’d rather like to know who’s bold enough to threaten us both.’

               Rubbing his wrists, Robin frowned.  ‘You mean … ?’

               ‘Work with me, Robin.  No one else needs to know.  We’ll find the killer, and we’ll stop them.  Together.’

               ‘No,’ Robin said immediately.  As Slade tilted his head, Robing stood tall and defiant.  ‘No, I said last night was the end.’

               Although he couldn’t see any of Slade’s face, Robin got the distinct impression he was raising his eyebrows.

               ‘If you’d rather work with your team …’

               Robin blanched.  ‘The Titans?  No.’

               No way could he bring them into this.  They’d want to know what it meant.  Why the kid was branded with Slade’s symbol.  How Slade could be innocent.

               And that meant explaining he’d been working with Slade.  And that meant they’d freak out, and they already freaked out enough over him, between Jason and Starfire …

               ‘Alone, then?’ Slade said, with a touch of surprise.  Robin couldn’t tell if it was sarcastic.

               And suddenly he was in that alley, boots stomping him down, until rage brought him up.  Rage blurred by pain.  Rage without thought.  Rage that got its fingers around a man’s throat and kept squeezing, because Robin wasn’t going to die here, _he wasn’t going to die like Jason_.

               Robin swallowed, and his throat was tight, as if someone had their fingers around _his_ neck.  ‘I won’t be your apprentice.’

               Slade laughed, low and soft, barely a whisper.  ‘Of course not.’

               He reached over, tracing his fingers over Robin’s shoulder, across his clavicle.  Robin’s mind was a fog, and some part of him wanted to shove Slade away, because surely it wasn’t _normal_.  Cyborg gave bone-crushing hugs and BB slapped high-fives and even Batman patted him on the back, but this touch was soft.  And if made Robin feel soft, too, in a strange, warm, breathless way.

               ‘You’re not wearing the armour I gave you,’ Slade said.

               ‘Might be a trap,’ Robin mumbled.  Somehow, with Slade looking down at him, the idea sounded stupid.

               Slade drew back his hand, slowly, as if he regretted having to do it.  ‘Smart boy.’  He drew a deep breath.  ‘In another world, we could _always_ work together.’

               ‘Maybe,’ Robin said, thinking that if so, that world was further away than Tamaran.  He closed his fists.  ‘In this world, we’ve got a killer to catch.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs for my super editor, Mana! x


	4. Chapter 4

Robin was relieved, when he got back in, to find Beast Boy and Cyborg absorbed in _Zombie Shootout 3000_ and Raven buried in her book—all too preoccupied to notice his flustered entrance.

               He needed suspects.

               Who’d want to threaten a Teen Titan?  Or try to ruin his reputation?  Robin snorted, leaning against the back of the sofa and watching the flashing guns on the TV screen.  OK, well, maybe every villain in Jump City.  And pretty much the world in general.  And every _hero_ would want to do the same for Slade.

               But _both_ of them?

               Besides, killing a kid and branding him?  That wasn’t just a threat; it was psychotic.  Who would _do_ that?

               Robin froze.

               He could think of one person.

               He was a long way away.  Five hours on a commercial airliner – but the T Jet could cut that in half.

               He took a moment to stand back, breathing slowly, and waited for the zombie hordes to drag Cyborg and Beast Boy into a Game Over.

               ‘Cy, do you think you can hold the fort for a while?’ Robin said, over Beast Boy’s squawks of fury.  ‘I’ve got to go to Gotham City.’

               He expected _some_ resistance, but Cyborg and Beast Boy shared one short glance, and Cyborg nodded.

               ‘Sure, man.  Stay as long as you need.’

               Robin scratched the hair at the back of his neck.  It was growing long; if he didn’t cut it soon he wouldn’t be able to gel it.  ‘Thanks.’

               ‘Wait.’  Over at the kitchen counter, Raven rose smoothly to her feet.  Laying her book down, she crossed the room, holding out something for him to take.

               It was a smooth ruby in a gold clasp, similar to the one she wore on her cape.  Robin took it and lowered his hand a little, surprised at its weight.  Raven watched him, tense, as if expecting something to happen.

               Robin glanced up.

               Raven’s expression changed.  ‘It’s for Jason,’ she said softly.  ‘To watch over him.  Just … set it over his grave.’

_He could’ve done with this when he was alive._   Robin bit down on the words.  ‘Raven, thanks, but this thing won’t last five minutes in Gotham.  Someone’ll take it.’

               She shook her head.  ‘It can’t be broken or stolen.  I made sure of it.’  Her expression wavered from pitying to pleading, and Robin closed his fist around the stone.

               ‘Okay.  Thanks.’

               ‘Something else,’ Raven murmured, stepping sideways to subtly block Cyborg and Beast Boy out.  ‘Some of my candles are still missing …’

               Robin shrank.  ‘There’s still one in my room.  Maybe a few.  I don’t know.’

               ‘You haven’t used them?’

               Robin frowned.  ‘I learned my lesson the first time.’  But she didn’t quite look like she believed him.  He glanced back at Cyborg and Beast Boy.  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

               ‘Don’t rush, man,’ Cyborg said.  ‘We got it.’

               Giving him a thin smile, Robin headed for the elevator, and the T Jet.  Time for a conversation with his first suspect: the man who murdered Jason.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a particular smell in Arkham Asylum.  A combination of stale sweat, rotten food and bleach.

               It was worse when Robin first visited, eight years old, the top of his head barely brushing Bruce’s chest.  Sometimes he still had nightmares about the dark cells, the way the damp seemed to creep into your skin and settle on your bones.  Now, near-blinding lights mimicked sunshine, and the walls were scrubbed clean and white.

               The guard looked over his shoulder as he led Robin to the elevator.  ‘So where’s the big man?’

               Robin frowned.  Gotham wasn’t like Jump.  People here weren’t used to Robin without Batman.  ‘He’s nocturnal.’

               Chuckling, the guard hit the button for the lowest floor.  They sailed down in silence, Robin tapping his heel.

               He hadn’t been here since Jason died.

               The doors opened on a darker floor.  Robin stiffened, fighting to keep his eyes forward as they passed bulletproof glass cells.  Familiar shapes moved behind them: the slinking green of Poison Ivy, the hulking mass of Killer Croc.  Through the thick glass he heard muffled chatter—insults, taunts.

               ‘We keep him separate,’ the guard said.  ‘Out of their sight, you know?’

               They reached a door at the far end of the hallway.  The guard drew the bolt, and led Robin through two more doors—each individually guarded.  Robin’s heart rose into his throat and throbbed.

               ‘Last door,’ the guard said.  It was black, a small window at the top showing a sliver of white light.  ‘He’s chained up in there, but keep your back against the door.  Ready kid?’

               Blowing out a slow breath, Robin nodded.  ‘Let me in.’

               The guard reached for the bolt.  ‘Cell thirteen open!’

               A series of calls sounded back—confirmation the guards heard him, that they were ready for the worst.  He drew back the bolt, and the door scraped open.  Robin steeled himself.  He stepped inside.

               The door closed immediately.  The slam echoed in the room, shaking through Robin.

               Jason’s killer sat on a bench at the far end of the cell, green dye growing out of his hair, mouth too thin without the drawn-on red lips.  His eyes were like black holes.  His hands were cuffed to his belt.

               The Joker looked up and grinned a wide, yellow-toothed grin.  ‘Well hello, Birdie.’

               Robin pushed his back against the door.  _He killed Jason, he killed Jason, he killed Jason._   His hands closed into fists.  Shaking.

               The Joker tried to get up, stumbled, and dropped back on the bench.  His belt was chained to the wall behind him.  He couldn’t touch Robin.  Couldn’t even stand.

               But Robin could touch him.  Could stride forward and strike that smirk off his face: beat that pale face into the edge of the bench until the skin split, and the bones broke, and those yellow teeth scattered across the floor.

_You murdered my little brother._

               The Joker tilted his head.  ‘What’s the matter, Birdie?  Cat got your tongue?’  He straightened, leaning back and kicking his feet out.  ‘For a moment there, I thought I was seeing a ghost.  It’s hard to tell you birdies apart.’

               Robin’s vision blazed red.  ‘Don’t you dare talk about him.’

               ‘He didn’t put up much of a fight.’  The Joker shrugged.  ‘Not after I broke his legs with a crowbar.’

               Robin didn’t even remember crossing the room.  He drove his fist into the Joker’s face, a punch hard enough to knock a man out cold.  The Joker slumped back into the wall, cracking his skull on the plaster, and then Robin hit him again, and felt bone crunch under his knuckles.  Robin’s chest was a ball of fire, and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even scream.  It was anger beyond anger.  It was all the pain he’d felt since Jason died, pummelled out through his fists.  Face.  Throat.  Ribs.  Anything, everything he could hit.

               The Joker let out little wheezing, stuttering cries of pain.  And then Robin realised they weren’t cries of pain.  He was laughing.

               He lashed out, and his hand closed around the Joker’s throat.

               ‘How poetic.’  The Joker’s voice was barely more than a creak.  ‘I kill a birdie, and a birdie kills me.’  Blotchy redness spread over his chalk-white face.  ‘Maybe they’ll even let you have my cell when you’re done.’

               Robin’s eyes widened.  Cold rushed over him like he’d dropped into ice water, and he was back in that alley, his hands around that man’s throat, and _he wasn’t going to die like Jason—_

               Robin leaped back, snatching his hands away.  The Joker doubled over, spluttering for breath between laughter.  Blood splattered from his mouth onto the clean white tiles.  Robin’s back hit the door.

_I nearly killed him._   He gasped, as out of breath as the Joker.  _I wanted to kill him._

               The Joker drew himself up, shoulders shaking.  ‘That all you’ve got?  I guess birdies don’t hit as hard as bats.’

               ‘Tell me about the boy in Jump,’ Robin spat.  ‘Why’d you kill him?’

               For a moment, the Joker was silent, staring up at Robin with wide eyes.  Then he let out a snort, which turned into a chuckle, and slowly grew into long, shrieking laughter.  ‘Oh man!’ he wheezed.  ‘Jump City?  I’ve been sitting cosy here for six weeks.  You’re a riot, kid.’

               Robin thumped his fist on the door, because it was that or the Joker’s face.  ‘Let me out.  I’m done.’

               The door opened, knocking forward him a step, and he darted through it with a sigh of relief.  The guards slammed and locked that door, and Robin stumbled through two more doors before the guard asked,

               ‘So?’

               ‘He doesn’t know,’ Robin said.  ‘He’d gloat, or drop hints, or make a joke out of it.  He just wanted to talk about—’  He stopped, his throat swelling.  _Jason._

               The guard didn’t respond, didn’t say he was sorry or that Jason deserved better, and Robin was kind of grateful.  He knew.  Everyone was sorry.  Everyone knew Jason didn’t deserve to die.  And no one could bring him back.

               Reaching into his pocket, he ran a thumb over Raven’s gemstone.

 

* * *

 

‘Hey Jason.’

               The grave was well-kept, swept clean, the marble polished and shining.  A vase of fresh flowers with big white petals sat by the stone.  Robin pulled a glove off to trace his fingers over the silk.  Starfire would want to know what they were: what species, what they meant.

               Jason would sniff and scorn, because why the hell would he want _flowers_?  Robin could almost imagine him, leaning on his own gravestone, lip curled in a half smirk.

               ‘Hope you’re okay,’ Robin murmured.

_‘I’m dead, moron.’_

               Robin snorted.  ‘Here, Raven got you a present.’  He drew out the gemstone and set it down.  For a moment, it flared with light, brighter than the evening sun in the grey Gotham graveyard.  Then Robin blinked, and it was a normal stone again.

_‘Pretty.  Can I have earrings to match?’_

               ‘You’re a brat.’

_‘Better a brat than boring.’_   In Robin’s mind, Jason grinned smugly.  _‘Let me guess how your day’s been.  You got up.  Ate pancakes.  Fought crime.  Went home a hero.’_

               ‘Met with Slade,’ Robin murmured, then cast a glance over his shoulder, heat flooding into his face.  The graveyard was empty, leaves rippling in a nippy breeze.  Shivering, Robin turned back to the grave.  To Jason.

               Jason arched one black eyebrow, the way he always did when he was alive.  _‘Get a load of you, rebel.’_

               Robin sighed.  If anyone wouldn’t judge him for working with Slade, it would be Jason.  If anyone wouldn’t blame him for wanting to choke the laughter out of the Joker’s throat, it would be Jason.

               ‘I miss you, brat,’ Robin mumbled.

               But Jason wasn’t there.

               ‘Evening, Robin.’

               Robin spun with a yelp, almost kicking over Jason’s flowers.

               Bruce Wayne smiled, hands in his suit pockets, face grey with stubble.  ‘Thought you could fly into Gotham without me knowing?’

               ‘What did you hear?’  Robin’s heart raced, faster than when he faced the Joker.  _I said Slade’s name out loud.  Why did I say it out loud?  Stupid, stupid!_

               Bruce’s smile remained, but his eyes creased.  Not mocking.  Sad.  ‘I wasn’t listening.’  He lowered his voice.  ‘You shouldn’t be here in that uniform.’

               Robin plucked at his shirt guiltily.  ‘I didn’t bring a change of clothes.’

               ‘You can change at home—’  Bruce stopped as his watch beeped.  He glanced at it, grimaced, and looked back up.  ‘On second thought, you might want to keep that uniform on.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and hugs to Mana, my lovely editor! x


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in the end notes, so people can avoid spoilers.

They staggered in late.  Robin’s shirt was soaked in something brownish and sticky, and he had a horrible feeling it was blood.  But it wasn’t _his_ blood.  So that was a consolation.

               Bruce drove them straight into the cave, and a wave of nostalgia crashed through Robin as he took in the grey walls, the buzzing electric lights, the rippling screens—and Alfred, hovering in the middle of it all, looking too pristine for this damp, cold place.

               ‘Master Dick,’ he bowed his head as Robin jumped out of the Batmobile, ‘a delight to see you again.’

               ‘Hey Alfred.’  Robin reached out, then glanced down at his shirt and drew back.  ‘I’m, uh, not going to hug you.’

               ‘In the circumstances, a handshake is acceptable.’  Alfred’s smile was warm, and his handshake was surprisingly strong, and for just a moment, Robin found it easy to smile back.

               Then Bruce dropped into the seat by the screen, peeled his mask off, and set it on the stool behind him.  Robin’s stool, once.  Then Jason’s ...

_After hours of working security cameras in the cave, Robin watched the Batmobile crash in through the waterfall and sagged.  They were back safe.  He guessed this was how Alfred felt all the time, watching the action and biting his nails._

_Then the car door opened, and he tensed again._

_‘You almost got yourself killed out there.’_

_‘I saved your neck!’ Jason spat.  ‘You’re welcome.’_

_Bruce’s mask didn’t hide his snarl at all.  ‘Pull another stunt like that, and you won’t be wearing that uniform again.’_

_Throwing his arms up with a cry of exasperated fury, Jason stormed away.  He didn’t cast a second glance at Robin, or Alfred, each hovering by the screens._

_Alfred sighed.  ‘Master Bruce, or Master Jason?’_

_Robin winced.  ‘I guess I’ll take Jason.’_

_‘Brave lad.’_

               Blinking, Robin drew himself out of the memory long enough to stumble to the Batcave shower—minimal and cold; the ones in the mansion were much better but just too far away for him to be bothered—and pull on the jogging bottoms and t-shirt Alfred left out for him.  He breathed in the soapy scent of clean cotton, muscles aching.  _We need Alfred at Titan’s Tower._

               When he stepped out, Bruce was typing away at the computer.

               Robin leaned on his shoulder.  ‘Need help?’

               Leaning back, Bruce ruffled his hair.  ‘Go to bed, Dick.  You look tired.’

               ‘I’m fine.’

               ‘No you’re not.’  Bruce frowned.  ‘You think I couldn’t tell you were lagging tonight?  You’re exhausted.’

               ‘And half-starved,’ Alfred put in, eyeing Robin suspiciously.

               ‘Cyborg made me pancakes.’  Robin couldn’t help the touch of defensiveness in his tone.

               Alfred was unmoved.  ‘And?’

               ‘And?’

               ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe pancakes are a breakfast food, Master Dick.  It is currently—’ Alfred’s gaze flashed to the clock on Bruce’s screen, ‘sixteen minutes past midnight.  You have eaten breakfast.  And?’

               Robin sagged.  ‘I’ll make some toast or something.’

               ‘You will prepare for bed,’ Alfred said firmly, ‘and I will make you a meal.’

               ‘Fine,’ Robin said wearily.  Then, guiltily, he added, ‘Thanks, Alfred.  Night, Dad.’

               He tapped Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce looked up with a faint, exhausted smile.  ‘It’s good to have you back, Dick.’

               Robin dragged his feet upstairs and through the manor.  He couldn’t remember ever feeling so heavy in his life.  Wayne Manor was the same as ever: polished and beautiful, exquisitely decorated for Bruce’s dozens of yearly parties.

               Anyone else would miss the tiny scratch in the wallpaper where Jason tossed a kitchen knife at a snooping Vicki Vale.  Robin meant to tell him off, but Vicki’s scream was so ridiculous he folded over laughing instead.  The following day’s headline read _BRUCE WAYNE RAISING FERAL CHILDREN_.  Jason had rolled his eyes.  ‘I aimed to miss anyway,’ he drawled over breakfast, meeting Bruce’s furious glare without flinching.  ‘If I’d wanted to hit her, I’d have hit her.’

               Robin climbed up the sweeping white staircase to his room, lips twitching at the near-invisible scuffs in the paintwork, carefully patched in, where Jason used to race him down the stairs in the morning, sliding sideways down the banister.

               He hesitated at Jason’s bedroom door.  He wanted to press his ear to it, to listen for the sound of Jason clicking away at a video game, huffing and swearing under his breath.  But he knew he wouldn’t hear anything.  And if he just stood here, undecided, it was almost like Jason was still alive.

               Turning away, Robin headed to his own room, where he sank into his bed and stared at the blank walls.

_‘How’re you doing?’_

_‘Piss off, Dick!’_

_Robin closed his eyes, took a very long, very slow breath, and forced himself to control his temper.  To be nice.  ‘You know Bruce won’t actually kick you out, right?’_

_‘Like I care.’  Jason flopped in his desk chair, glaring at Robin in the doorway.  ‘Ungrateful bastard.  He send you up here?’_

_Folding his arms, Robin leaned against the door.  ‘Actually, I came up to thank you.  I saw that hookshot manoeuvre on the cameras.  Tricky move.  If you hadn’t pulled it off, Bruce would be dead for sure.  So thanks.’_

_Jason stared at Robin, mouth hanging open.  Then he scowled.  ‘What’s your game here?’_

_‘No game,’ Robin said.  ‘Bruce only ever blows up like that when he’s scared.  He really thought you were going to die.  So did we, to be honest.  Alfred actually fist-bumped me when you made it.’_

_Jason’s expression softened, but he lowered his gaze.  ‘Don’t need anyone fussing over me.’_

_‘I know.’_

_Bruce told Robin about Jason’s history: his mother a junkie, his dad in the mob.  His childhood as a drug mule.  He looked like a lost cause, but then Bruce had a soft spot for lost causes.  And look at Jason now.  A superhero._

_‘I’m never going to live up to you.’  Jason’s gaze flicked up, venomous._

_Robin weathered it with, he thought, heroic patience.  ‘Why d’you want to be me?  All I did my first six months was make puns and get kidnapped.’_

_Jason laughed, then looked surprised that he’d laughed, then angry, and finally pressed his hands to his face.  ‘Ugh.’_

_‘Look, Jason, I’m not going to ask much of you.  Ever.’  Crossing the room, Robin perched on the end of Jason’s bed.  ‘Do one thing for me, though?  Look after Bruce.’_

_Jason’s fingers parted just enough for Robin to make out his expression of utmost disgust._

_‘I’m serious,’ Robin said.  ‘Dad’s an idiot.  He’ll get himself killed in the name of justice.  So once in a while, really piss him off and save his life for me.’_

_Lowering his hands, Jason gave him the smallest, weakest smile.  ‘Sure.  Whatever.  OK.’_

_Standing, Robin offered his hand.  ‘C’mon, there’s a place on thirty-ninth that does the best burgers in Gotham—’_

               ‘Master Dick?’  Alfred shouldered through the door, a plate balanced in one hand.

               The smell of pasta wafted through the room and Robin pushed himself off the bed, feeling like someone was tearing strips of flesh straight out of his chest.

 

* * *

 

The first touch was soft as snowfall.  Robin sighed against his pillow, too comfortable to open his eyes.  The touch—a hand—traced a circle around his knee and he shivered.

               Then stilled.

               Something … someone was in his bed.

               Robin’s eyes flashed open, but he couldn’t move.  A weight pressed into his chest, crushing his lungs, forcing the air from him.  He tried to clench his hand, and found his fingers numb.

Rolling his eyes down, he could barely see the figure standing over him.  Dark.  Tall.  He couldn’t make out their face, or clothes.  Only a vague shape, wavering at the edge of his vision.

               His heart slammed in his chest, pounding like he was racing over the rooftops.  _Shout for Bruce.  Alfred.  Anybody!_   But his teeth locked together, his throat as tight as if someone were choking him.

               The shadow moved, and Robin was going to be sick.  _He’s gonna kill me._

               It leaned closer, its hand tracing slowly from Robin’s knee to his thigh.  Robin wished he hadn’t kicked the blankets off in his sleep.  Its fingers dug into his hip and Robin forced a low, desperate whine from his throat.

               _Somebody come get me.  Somebody—_

The shape moved in, and Robin closed his eyes.  But it didn’t hurt him.  Instead, something touched his throat.  A knife?  A rope?  It fluttered, soft and wet and warm— _lips._   Robin’s breath stuck, the whirling panic in his mind slamming to a halt.

               _Slade?_

               The hand digging into Robin’s hip loosened, rubbing soothing circles over his skin, dipping under the elastic of his pyjamas.  The tension eked from Robin’s muscles, his heart slowing to a steady, heavy, _thump, thump, thump_.

               It was Slade.  Slade, with his mask off, his mouth pressing under Robin’s jaw, his hand slipping lower.  And distantly, Robin knew he should be concerned—about—about _something_ —but it didn’t matter, because Slade’s tongue traced the skin just under his ear and it was better than Robin even imagined.

               _I’m dreaming._

               He melted.  Of course he was dreaming.  He hadn’t slept in so long—no wonder everything felt so strange, so vivid.  The weight eased off his chest.  His fingertips tingled, and then his hands were free to move, and he lifted them and ran them over Slade’s ribs.  Trembling.  Aching.  Lifting his chin, Robin let out another moan, this one high and needy.

               Slade drew back.  ‘ _I should have known this was what you wanted.  Slut._ ’

               His voice was wrong.  An under-the-throat growl, like someone with a softer voice trying to imitate Slade’s timbre.  Everything in Robin seized up at once, and inside he was screaming, _Not Slade, not Slade, NOT SLADE!_

               He thrust the heel of his hand up into the shadow’s sternum; followed it up with a sharp punch meant to crack across his jaw, screaming in terror and rage—

               His hands met with nothing.  Yelping, Robin overreached and slipped over the edge of the bed, landing with a thump on the carpet.  He rolled and sprang up, gasping.

               But there was no one there.  No shadow.  Nobody.

Flicking his gaze from side-to-side, Robin backed up, aiming for the light switch by the door.  Footsteps thundered down the hall, and he turned with a snarl, throwing his bedroom door open—

               The shadow stood there, and he swung a punch.  The shadow slipped aside and he tumbled through the doorway, but spun back, fists up.

               ‘Dick!  Dick, stop, it’s me!’

               Yellow light flooded his vision and Robin hissed.  He blinked, fighting night-blindness, backing away, and stopped.

               Bruce stood in the doorway.  Robin’s bedroom light burned behind him, lighting the tips of his hair gold.  He was barefoot, in grey jogging bottoms—the old ones he liked to sleep in, when he didn’t have a girlfriend over to impress.  Belatedly, Robin realised the footsteps in the hall were running _toward_ his bedroom, not away.  Not an attacker trying to escape.  Bruce, charging to his rescue.

               ‘You OK?’ Bruce said, as Robin slumped against the wall, shaking.

               ‘There was someone in my room.  He—’  Robin swallowed.  ‘He grabbed me.  I tried to hit him, but he was gone.’  It wasn’t a _lie_.  Not exactly.  ‘He used something to pin me down, like he was sitting on my chest.’

               Bruce raised his head, not quite nodding, but as if suddenly understanding.  ‘Sleep paralysis.’

               Robin frowned.  ‘Wh-what?’

               Folding his arms, Bruce leaned on the doorframe.  ‘I used to get it as a kid.  You wake up and you can’t move, but you’re still dreaming and you see things in your own room.  People, monsters.  Sound familiar?’  Raising one dark eyebrow, he added, ‘You haven’t slept much lately, have you?’

               Robin’s throat was dry as paper.  He swallowed.  ‘So it was a dream?’

               ‘The alarms didn’t go off.’

               That settled it.  If the ultra-sensitive alarms in Wayne Manor didn’t go off, no one came in.  Letting out a sigh, Robin set a hand on his chest.  His heart drummed against his palm.  _Run.  Fight.  Run.  Fight._   ‘Sorry.  I didn’t meant to wake you up.’

               Bruce eyed him for a long moment.  ‘Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?’

               Robin forced a huff of laughter.  ‘I’m a bit old for that.’

               Sighing, Bruce stepped forward and ruffled his hair.  ‘Yeah, I suppose you are.’  But there was a tired, wary look in his eyes.  Robin wondered what Bruce’s first thoughts were, when he woke up and heard screaming.

               _My screaming._   Robin shuddered.  _He thought it was Jason all over again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Sexual assault while pinned in bed. Sleep paralysis.
> 
> Many thank yous to my gorgeous editor Mana, and to all of you who've left lovely comments! Thank you! x


	6. Chapter 6

Three calls in one morning.  Three.

               Robin slumped on the sofa next to Raven, who was curled around her book, slowly reviving herself with tea.  As if he wasn’t tired enough from his flight back to Jump—why did _three_ villains feel the need to kick off their plans all in the same morning?  Even Cyborg and Beast Boy were shattered, their usual raucous shouting subdued as they watched an old action movie.  As Robin glanced up, an explosion brightened the giant screen.

               Beside him, Raven frowned at her book and closed it, keeping her finger stuck in the page.  The cover was black leather, with a title in embossed gold: _DEMONIACO_.

               ‘Looks like a page-turner,’ Robin murmured.

               She glanced sideways at him.  ‘It’s giving me useful advice.’

               ‘Looks like it’s giving you a headache.’

               ‘Mm.’  For a moment, Raven was silent, as if weighing him up.  Then, finally, she held the book out for him.  ‘Read this page out to me?’

               Raising his eyebrows, Robin took it.  He let the book fall open to Raven’s page, and stared blankly.  He checked the front cover again.  Then flipped back to the page.  ‘Raven, I can’t read this.’

               ‘You can’t?’

               He held the page up for her.  It was covered in jagged runes, twisting about the page seemingly at random.  Robin couldn’t even begin to guess how you were meant to read it.  ‘What language is this?’

               Raven’s shoulders sagged.  ‘Never mind.’

               As she took the book back, eyes narrowed, Robin couldn’t help feeling that he’d failed some kind of test.

 

* * *

 

               Robin waited until long past dark to snatch up his communicator and bo staff, and leave the Tower.  Cyborg glanced up from a kung-fu movie as Robin slipped in the elevator.  As the doors closed, Robin wondered if the others had set up some kind of rota, so one of them was always awake to meet him when he came back.

               To stop him stealing Raven’s books and candles again.  Reading the chants without knowing what they meant, but pouring all his strength into it, begging them to work.

_Bring Jason back._

               He reached the old headquarters early, but Slade was already waiting for him.

               ‘You went to Gotham,’ Slade said, by way of greeting.  He perched on the arm of the throne where he used to sit, legs stretched out in front of him.

               ‘You watched me?’  Robin shook his head.  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised.’

               ‘Your suspect?’ Slade said, utterly unrepentant.

               ‘Dead end.’

               ‘I thought as much.’  Slade pushed himself to his feet as Robin walked up to meet him.  ‘Jump PD have a positive ID on the boy.  Thomas Newton.  He lived in Cajon Valley, had an average school report, and zero ties to any crime organisation.’

               It felt like a lead ball growing in his chest.  Did Thomas Newton’s schoolfriends already miss him?  Would there be an assembly to announce his death, the teachers grim-faced, the kids quiet.

               ‘So nothing useful from the victim,’ Robin said.

               ‘I wouldn’t say nothing.’  Reaching behind the throne, Slade drew out a flat silver briefcase, which he set on the arm of the throne beside him.  ‘The boy had a foreign chemical in his blood.  Judging from the autopsy, it was neither injected nor swallowed.’

               ‘Then how’d it get in him?’

               Slade shrugged casually, as if they were discussing the weather.  ‘A mystery.  As, in fact, is the chemical in question.  My channels couldn’t trace it.  But it has an interesting affect.’

               ‘Which is?’

               ‘Paralysis,’ Slade said.  ‘I’m afraid our victim had little chance of fighting back.’

               Robin’s heart stopped dead.  His belly twisted.  _Bruce called it sleep paralysis._   His ribs seemed to collapse in on him.  He couldn’t breathe.  That weight pressing him down.  The shadow hovering over him.  The voice, low and rough and scornful.

_It was him.  It was the killer.  He was there in Bruce’s house._

               He was falling backwards, into a deep black hole.  He had to call Bruce.  He had to warn him—whatever this was, it could get through the security at Wayne Manor.

_He knows who I am._

               ‘Robin.’

               Slade’s voice cut through the panic; Robin jerked to attention.  His hands were shaking.

               Single eye narrowing, Slade stepped closer.  ‘What do you know?’

               Not, _What’s the matter?_   Not, _Are you OK?_   The question should have hurt, but it didn’t.  Because it wasn’t about Robin.  It was about the case.  And Robin could handle the case.

               ‘He found me at Wa—in Gotham,’ Robin said.  ‘The killer.  I thought it was a nightmare.  He—attacked me.’

               His throat closed up around the word ‘attacked’.  He remembered the lips on his throat, the hand pressing into his hip, the way his heart slowed and his muscles loosed and he _let it touch him_.

               ‘You experienced the paralysis?’  Slade came close enough for his shadow to pool over Robin.  He touched Robin’s arm—a light touch.  ‘And you escaped?’

               Robin gave a jerky shrug.  ‘I guess I fought it off.’

               Slade left his hand on Robin’s arm just a little longer, his fingers somehow warm even through the thick gloves.  A wave of heat ran through Robin’s skin and he shivered, and Slade stepped away.

               ‘As always, Robin,’ he murmured, ‘you impress me.’  Turning, he reached for the silver briefcase.  ‘But you won’t have to worry about paralysis again.’  With a couple of clicks, he opened the briefcase, and drew something out.  ‘Come here.’

               Eyeing the thing in Slade’s hand—a glass phial?—Robin stepped closer.  ‘What is it?’

               Then Slade drew out something else, and Robin froze.

               A hypodermic needle.

               ‘Slade.  What is it?’

               Rolling his one eye, Slade looked up.  ‘Poison.  Come here.’

               Robin’s hand crept to his bo staff.  ‘I’m not letting you inject me with something unless I know what it is.’

               Slade only prepared the syringe, flicking the air out the top with practised efficiently, as if he cornered and drugged people every day of his life.  _Maybe he does._   Bile rose in Robin’s throat.

               But then Slade tilted his head, lifting the edge of his mask to reveal a sparse line of pale skin—and slipped the needle into his throat.

               ‘No!’  Robin started forward.

               Lowering the plunger and removing the needle, Slade let his mask fall back into place.  He held up the syringe for Robin to inspect.  Empty.  ‘It’s a vaccine, Robin.  I assumed we’d both want a dose.’  He shrugged.  ‘Of course, if you don’t want yours …’

               ‘No!  No, of course I—’  Robin realised Slade was smirking somewhere under that mask, and gritted his teeth.  ‘You could’ve just _said_.’

               ‘You could have trusted me.’

               ‘Yeah,’ Robin mumbled, sidling closer as Slade prepared a second needle.  ‘Trust the bad guy.  That’s a great idea.’

               Slade set a hand on Robin’s shoulder and pushed him down into the throne.  Robin clenched his hands on his knees, heart thumping.  Reaching out, Slade hooked a finger under the collar of Robin’s cloak, drawing it down.  Robin gritted his teeth, heat and cold rushing through him, trying not to think of the touch of those lips, right where Slade’s hand rested now.  Of how good they felt, when he thought it was Slade.

               Robin winced at the sharp pinch of the needle, screwing his face as cold spread from the syringe into his veins.

               Slade withdrew the needle, ignoring Robin’s hiss.  ‘That vaccine won’t last forever.  Your body will flush it out over the next few days, and you’ll need another dose.  And since I’m the only one with access to it … I suggest you get comfortable trusting _the bad guy_.’

               Robin wrinkled his nose, resisting the childish urge to stick his tongue out.  ‘So we’re immune.  Now what?’

               ‘Now we interrogate one of _my_ suspects.’  Stashing the needles and vaccine back in the briefcase, Slade set it down on the floor.  ‘The man behind Anna Petrov’s smuggling earlier this week.  I believe you’re familiar with Falcone?’

               Robin sat up straight.  ‘Carmine Falcone’s in Jump?’

               ‘Not personally,’ Slade said.  ‘But Gotham’s most successful mafia boss has influence everywhere.’  He glanced Robin over quickly.  ‘I notice you’re still not wearing the armour I gave you.’

               Folding his arms, Robin leaned back in his seat.  ‘I’m getting it scanned at the Tower.’

               ‘Suit yourself.’  Robin couldn’t tell if Slade was amused or irritated.  He pointed across the room.  ‘Put that on.’

               Narrowing his eyes, Robin stood and walked across the room.  A broken cog lay in the dust, a pile of dark cloth folded on its edge.  Robin lifted it up, and saw the badge.  He stiffened.  ‘No.’

               ‘Robin …’

               Robin snatched up the black material.  ‘I am not wearing my damn apprentice clothes!’

               ‘Then you might as well go back to the Tower now,’ Slade said levelly.  He was silent for a moment, meeting Robin’s furious glare with cold patience.  ‘I have organised a meeting with Falcone’s representatives, to trade that memory card I took for information about our killer, and I have convinced them you are working for me.  If you walk in as Robin, they will scatter, and we’ll get nothing.’

               ‘I am not your apprentice,’ Robin spat.

               ‘No, you are an ungrateful brat,’ Slade snapped.  ‘I am willing to lose a very valuable memory card for this information.  You’re not willing to put on a uniform.’

               Robin held his glare a moment longer, breathing hard.  Then, finally, he shrank.  Fine.  _Fine._ Slade was right; he was being stupid.  He’d done undercover a thousand times with Bruce and the Titans.

               But this didn’t feel the same as _undercover_.

               Scowling, he unclasped his cloak, scrunched it into a ball and set it on the floor.  Then, Slade’s stare burning through his skin, he removed his belt and yanked his shirt off over his head.  As he kicked off his boots and looped his thumbs into the hem of his leggings, he hesitated.

               He could just … pretend he didn’t care.  Strip his leggings off slowly, bend right over and _let_ Slade look.  He could enjoy the feel Slade’s eye running down his body, the way he’d imagined, alone in his bedroom—that cold grey becoming somehow warmer—

               Robin shook his head.  _Am I insane?_

               He shot a glare at Slade.  ‘Do you mind?’

               ‘Not at all,’ Slade murmured.

               And for a moment, Robin honestly thought he’d keep staring.  Heat flushed through his entire body.  The air stuck in his throat, and his legs locked.

               But then, slowly, Slade turned his back.

               Robin hesitated, hands still on the hem of his leggings, because his heart was going like freight train and his bare skin was prickling all over.  _Don’t think about._   He shook his head, stripping out of his green leggings and tugging on the black ones instead.  _He’s messing with you._

               He yanked on the rest of the uniform, hating its touch, hating the weight of the pauldrons and arm guards, hating Slade’s logo stamped on his chest, precisely where it was branded on Thomas Newton. He shoved his feet back into his boots and tightened the laces.

               ‘Happy?’ he growled as Slade turned back, looking very much like he was smirking under that mask.

               ‘Almost.’  Slade dug into his belt and produced something—a black mask.

               Sighing, Robin stepped closer and took it.  He gave Slade a sharp look.  ‘I’m not taking off mine with you looking.’

               ‘It should fit over your mask,’ Slade said mildly, as if the whole thing were very amusing.  Definitely smirking under there.

               The back of the mask was adhesive, like Robin’s own.  He peeled the paper off it, then lowered his head and stuck it down.  It was just an inch or so larger than his own mask, the glue sticking easily to his bare skin.  Robin looked up—and stumbled back.

               He couldn’t see anything.  He blinked, rubbed the front of the mask, turned his head.  It was opaque.

‘This mask is useless,’ he scoffed, fumbling for the corner to peel it back off.  ‘I can’t see through it.’

               A hand caught his wrist, pulling his arm down.  Robin gasped through gritted teeth; a moment later, Slade released him.

               ‘It’s not a mask,’ he said.  ‘It’s a blindfold.’


	7. Chapter 7

Robin blanched.  ‘ _What?_ ’

               ‘It’s a blindfold,’ Slade repeated, with what sounded like strained patience.

               ‘I heard you!’  Robin reached up again to peel the mask away.  Slade touched his hand and Robin jerked back, curling his fingers.  ‘ _Why_ have you blindfolded me?’

               ‘Naturally, Falcone’s representatives weren’t keen to meet a Teen Titan face-to-face—or allow you anywhere near their base of operations.’

               ‘I thought you told them—’

               ‘I _did_ tell them you were working for me,’ Slade said.  ‘And they said that, since you were working for me, you wouldn’t object if I blindfolded you.’

               Robin said nothing, because he couldn’t seem to unclench his teeth.  He opened and closed his fists, breathing hard.  The darkness blotting his eyes was like an itch he longed to scratch.  He blinked, fast and repeatedly, as if at any moment he might open his eyes and light would flood back in.

               ‘Concentrate on your hearing,’ Slade murmured.  ‘You can still find your way.’

               Slowly, Robin unclenched his fists.  Then his jaw.  Slade’s footsteps echoed as he stepped back, only slightly muffled by the layers of dust.  Forcing himself to breathe slowly, Robin found he _could_ hear where Slade was going—could hear his footfall soften as he moved to Robin’s left, his breath grow sharp—

               Robin spun, his wrist snapping up, his right foot automatically falling to the side as he blocked Slade’s punch and ducked aside.

               ‘See?’ Slade murmured.  ‘You’re perfectly capable.’

               Robin straightened.  ‘I hate you.’

               ‘Eloquent.  This way.’

               As Slade’s footsteps receded, Robin whipped out his bo staff, trailing it in front of him.  It tapped against Slade’s throne and he stepped aside to avoid it.

               The truth was, he _had_ trained blindfolded before.  He used to enjoy the challenge, in the Batcave with Bruce, learning to feel the points of the clock around him, to hear every little step.

               But screwing around in the Batcave wasn’t the same as being truly blinded.  Robin’s skin tingled as he followed Slade, hairs prickling on the back of his neck.  Was that creak just the old metal platforms overhead settling, or was someone walking toward them?  Was that breeze on his temple air currents, or breath?

               Robin stumbled, and cursed, but kept on doggedly.

               The killer was _in his bedroom_.  If he didn’t find him …

               Shuddering, Robin walked on.  He heard the rushing of water before they reached the tunnels, and then felt it splashing over his boots.  They were waterproof, but he was acutely aware of the cold pressing through the leather.

               ‘How far are we going?’ he said.  ‘If you want me to grapple over rooftops …’

               ‘No need,’ Slade said.  ‘Falcone has arranged us some transport.’

               Robin rolled his eyes, although he knew Slade couldn’t see it.  ‘How kind.’

               Still, he couldn’t help feeling grateful when, moments after they stepped into the warm night air, Slade touched his elbow and murmured, ‘There’s a car.’

               He set his hand between Robin’s shoulder blades, nudging him in the right direction.  Robin put a hand up and felt the ridge at the top of an open car door.  For half a second, Slade’s hand slid down his back, and Robin shivered—and Slade must’ve assumed he was shaking him off, because he withdrew his hand quickly.

               Stashing his bo staff, Robin ducked inside, feeling for the soft seat.  It smelled of new leather—Robin wrinkled his nose.  Bruce loved new-car smell, and so did Cyborg, but fresh leather always made him queasy.

               ‘The kid’s blindfolded?’  The voice came from somewhere in front of Robin—the driver, he assumed.

               ‘The mask.’  Slade’s voice came from outside.

               There was a shifting noise, and Robin felt a breeze, as if someone were fanning him.  The driver grunted, apparently satisfied.

_He waved his hand in front of me,_ Robin realised.

               He door closed with a click, and for a moment Robin felt penned in, the luxurious Mercedes he’d been imagining shrinking to a cramped taxi cab.  He closed his fists, longing to reach up and snatch the blindfold off.

               Then the door on the other side of the cab opened, and the seat beneath him shifted as Slade got in.  The other door snapped closed, and a moment later, the car purred to life.

               Robin sat utterly still, breathing slowly and softly, listening to the creak of leather; the soft, repetitive click of the indicator; the hush of other cars sweeping past.  Beside him, there was the occasional soft, rolling beat of Slade drumming his fingers—not impatiently, but slowly, absent-minded.

               Robin didn’t believe Slade was _ever_ absent-minded.  It was deliberate; a comfort.  Proof to Robin that Slade was still there.

               Then again, he didn’t believe Slade was ever comforting, either.

               He knew the car was going to stop before it did—he could feel the slight push of the brakes—and then the driver said, ‘We’re here.’

               As he heard Slade get out, Robin reached for the door automatically, fumbling for a handle he’d never seen.  His fingers curled around something, and he tugged.  The door opened with a click.  Slipping out his bo staff, Robin stepped carefully out, shutting the door behind him.

               ‘This way, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was on the other side of the car.

               Sweeping his bo staff out with his left hand, Robin traced his right over the back of the car, guiding himself around it.  When his staff bumped the kerb, he kept it there, gauging where to step up.

               ‘You sure the kid’s blindfolded?’

               Robin straightened.  This was a new voice—male, with the nasal twang of a Gotham accent.  While he inwardly bristled at the ‘kid’, he couldn’t help smirking at the thought he’d moved with enough confidence for the man to doubt his handicap.

               ‘Pretty sure,’ the driver said, on Robin’s other side.  There was that wafting feeling again, as he passed his hand over Robin’s face.

               ‘Does Falcone have that little faith in me?’ Slade said.

               ‘You don’t gotta worry about Falcone,’ said the Gotham accent.  ‘You gotta worry about me.’

               ‘His mask is opaque.’  There was a touch of irritation cutting into Slade’s voice now.

               ‘Prove it,’ said Gotham Accent.

               Robin slammed his bo staff into the ground, and although he couldn’t see them all jump, he heard the hissed intakes of breath.  Several, in fact.  So it wasn’t just Gotham Accent out here—there were other people, too.  Bodyguards, Robin guessed.  Probably great big lumbering apes of men in black suits with more guns than brain cells.

               ‘What do you want me to do?’ he snapped.  ‘Fall flat on my face?  Slade blindfolded me like you wanted, so talk.’

               There was a moment of quiet, and then Gotham Accent chuckled.  ‘Fine, kid, don’t get your panties in a twist.  You can’t see, and I guess even your boss-man can only half see.’

               A snigger—one of those ape bodyguards, Robin guessed.  He gritted his teeth.  Something touched Robin’s wrist, then closed over it.  Slade’s hand.

               ‘The door’s this way,’ Slade said.

               As Slade guided him through, Robin winced at the cloying stench of mould.  Wherever they were, it was nothing like Falcone’s shiny white mansion in Gotham.  Probably some storage base; maybe a drug den.

               ‘I’d say make yourselves comfortable, but …’

               At the way Gotham Accent’s voice echoed, Robin reassessed his imaginary map of the building.  It must’ve been large, and bare.  Maybe a stripped out studio, left to rot somewhere in Jump’s back streets.  It was cold, too—when Slade let go of Robin’s wrist, he pulled his arms close to his sides and shivered.

               ‘You have the card?’ Gotham Accent said.

               ‘If you have the information,’ said Slade.

               ‘Show us.’

               There was a catching noise as Slade opened some compartment on his belt, a moment’s silence, and then the noise again.

               ‘OK,’ said Gotham Accent.  ‘Ask what you wanna ask.’

               ‘You’re aware of Jump PD’s Thomas Newton case?’

               ‘The kid found on Jackson?  What of it?’

               Slade shifted his foot—it sounded like he was moving closer to Robin.  ‘I know Falcone has people working that area.  What did they see?’

               Someone was moving behind Robin.  Not _right_ behind him, but some way back, maybe even outside, judging from the softness of the footfalls.  And judging from the amount of footfall, it was a _lot_ of people.

               ‘Slade,’ he whispered.

               A light touch on the back of his arm, but Slade said nothing.

               ‘Yeah, our boys might’ve seen somethin’.  Guy in a black suit, black mask.  Not unlike yours, but he was short, apparently.  More like the kid’s size.’

_I’m seventeen,_ Robin wanted to snap.  _Stop calling me kid._   But even in his head, he could tell how childish that sounded.  And besides, those noises behind him were getting louder.  More insistent.

               ‘What kind of mask?’ Slade said.

               ‘Plain.  Like that half of yours.’

               Robin imagined Gotham Accent waving at the black side of Slade’s mask.  He straightened, ignoring the sounds behind him for a moment.  ‘No holes for his eyes?’

               ‘None they saw.’

               There was a click behind Robin.  A door opening, or closing.  He turned.  ‘Slade.’

               ‘I hear them,’ Slade murmured.

               ‘They were surprised,’ Gotham Accent said, talking louder, as if to block out the noises.  ‘Killer didn’t seem to have any trouble liftin’ that kid.  Like carryin’ a pillow, they said.’  Robin could practically feel the oily grin on his face as he kept talking.  ‘And they said when he was done, the guy just vanished.  Spooky, huh?’

               For a moment, the room rang with silence—painful silence, like the quiet before the first roll of thunder.  Then Slade said, ‘Your information wasn’t as detailed as you led us to believe—but I suppose you have earned this.’

               The click of his belt, and then a moment pause.  Gotham Accent shifted, and Robin guessed Slade had tossed him the memory card.

               ‘Very generous of you,’ Gotham Accent said.  ‘Thing is … you shouldn’t have taken this in the first place.’

               Robin’s chest tightened.  The footsteps behind him made no further effort to be quiet—he heard them fanning around him, circling them, trapping them.

               Gotham Accent sighed.  ‘See, a good friend of mine is in the hospital ’cause of you two.  You might remember her.  Nice lady.  Pretty smile.  Goes by the name of Anna.’

               On instinct, Robin lowered his stance.  His lifted his hand, touching the edge of his blindfold, ready to rip it off.

               ‘Would you look at that?’ Gotham Accent said.  ‘Guess the kid was blindfolded.  Shame.  He ain’t gonna get to see the man who kills him.’

               Robin lowered his hand, mind racing.  They were surrounded.  Even if he _could_ see, he couldn’t block bullets.

               But he could even the odds.

               Reaching into his belt, he felt for the right compartment, and wrenched out a tiny metal ball, smooth and even as a marble.

               ‘Slade,’ he murmured.  ‘Don’t look.’

               And he threw the flashbang—just as the first bullet fired.

               Robin dropped to the floor even before he head the flashbang explode.  His eyes were protected, but there was nothing to guard his ears from the bang—it went through his head like being boxed in both ears at the same time, rattling his skull.

               A hand closed around his arm, and he jerked away with a yelp.  But the hand only tightened, and distantly, through the ringing in his ears, Robin heard Slade’s voice.  He couldn’t hear _words_ , but it was definitely Slade’s voice.

               Robin shook his head, squeezing his already-blinded eyes closed.  ‘What?  I can’t …’

               But Slade’s voice was already growing clearer.  ‘—on to me.  Robin!’

               With an impatient sigh, bordering on a growl, Slade dragged Robin closer.  Robin just about had the presence of mind to stash his bo staff as Slade roughly pulled Robin’s arm up over his shoulders—and then to grip, with all his might, as he heard the familiar bang and hiss of a grappling gun.

               The ground lurched out from under him, and Robin ground his teeth, digging his fingers into Slade’s shoulder as he clung to his side.  Something smacked into his leg and he grunted.  Then the swooping sensation in his stomach stopped abruptly, and Slade was dragging him up by the collar, up through something.

               _Skylight,_ Robin thought vaguely, his leg panging as he dragged it up behind him.  It felt like he’d been punched right on a nerve, pain cutting right down into the muscle.

               He felt corrugated metal underneath him, and then felt it tremble as bullets ripped through it.  Stumbling to his feet, Robin reached up, and finally ripped the damn blindfold off.

               Blinking in the orange streetlight, he found Slade standing to his left, the skylight directly behind him.  The room below seemed painfully bright, searing right through Robin’s eyes into the back of his skull.  He stepped away from the skylight, shoving the blindfold in his belt as he darted into the shadows at the corner of the roof, Slade racing alongside him.

               Slade leapt clean off the edge of the roof, landing with a quick roll on the dark street below.  Robin sprang after him—and fire shot up his leg.  He yelled, a combination of shock and pain, and barely managed to roll through his landing.

               Slade was already on his feet, dragging a man out of a dark blue Mercedes parked close by.  The driver from before.  Robin staggered after him—every other step felt like treading on splintered bone.  Slade planted a punch in the driver’s gut and tossed him aside.

               ‘In the car,’ Slade growled, and Robin nodded, wrenching open the passenger’s side and dropping in as Slade leapt in behind the wheel, keys glinting in his hand.

               The engine roared, and for a moment rubber squealed on tarmac before the Mercedes sped forward.  Gunshots echoed behind them and Robin ducked.  The movement sent another shard of pain through the inside of his leg and he snarled.  It was getting worse.  His leg felt hot, sticky, as though he was sweating fountains.

               Whipping round a corner, Slade glanced sideways at him.  ‘You’re hurt.’

               ‘Just my leg,’ Robin ground it.  ‘Pulled a muscle, I think.’

               But then they passed under another orange streetlight, and he saw something glistening on his black leggings.  And then, more clearly, on the cream leather car seat.

               His heart thumped.  ‘Shit.’

               Bile rose in his throat, nothing to do with the stink of new leather.  He hadn’t pulled a muscle.

               He’d been shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely editor, Mana! x


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early because I'm going on holiday and I don't want to leave you hanging!
> 
> Trigger warnings in the endnotes and added to the tags. x

_Don’t panic._   But he was already panting for breath.  He’d been shot.  Shot on the inside of his leg, and he was already gushing blood.  Had they hit his artery?  Peopled died fast from a shot to the femoral artery.  He might only have minutes.

               ‘Don’t sit there gaping,’ Slade snapped.  ‘Put pressure on it, both hands!  And put your foot up on the dashboard.’

               Robin fumbled to obey, heaving his foot up despite the pain, pressing both hands over the bloody patch on his leg.  ‘What’s closer?  Hospital or the Tower?’

               ‘You don’t need a hospital.  I’ll patch you up.’

               Robin spluttered.  ‘Slade, I’ve been shot!  Take me to a hospital!’

               ‘Calm down.’

               ‘If it hit my artery—’

               ‘If it hit your artery, you’d be unconscious by now.’  Slade slowed the car, gliding into a line of late night traffic.  ‘I’ve been shot plenty of times, Robin.  Trust me, you’ll be fine.  It’s only a graze.’

               Robin hunched over his leg.  It didn’t feel fine.  It felt like the bullet had gone through every inch of his thigh, snapping the bone to splinters along the way.  ‘It’s bleeding like crazy.’

               ‘The more you panic, the worse it’ll bleed,’ Slade pointed out.  ‘Breathe.  I’m not going to let you die.’  He lowered his voice.  ‘For one thing, I don’t want a psychotic, revenge-bent Batman hunting me down.’

               In spite of the searing heat in his leg, a hysterical little bubble of laughter burst up Robin’s throat.  ‘Batman would kick your ass so hard.’

               ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence, Robin.’

               Robin sniggered, then fell silent.  He tried to breathe slowly, clenching and loosening his jaw over each fresh wave of pain.  He wanted to peel his hands back, to look at the damage, but he didn’t dare.

               Finally, Slade glided the car down a dark, quiet street.  He tucked it out of the way, in a dark patch between streetlights, and shut the engine off.

               ‘Hold still,’ he murmured, tugging something from his belt.  It was a length of cloth—the same creamy bandage strips Bruce carried in his utility belt.  Reaching over, Slade wound it under Robin’s leg.  Robin gingerly lifted his hands away, and Slade swept the bandage over his wound in a few sharp movements, then tied it off.  ‘It won’t hold for long, but it’ll get you upstairs.’  Slade straightened, opening his door.  ‘Wait, and I’ll lift you out.’

               Robin opened his own door as Slade walked around the front of the car.  He wriggled his foot off the dashboard and pushed himself up.  ‘I can walk fine,’ he snapped.  ‘Like you said, it’s just a graze.’

               Or that was what he tried to say.  What actually came out of his mouth was, ‘I can walk fuhhh.  Luuhh sugh juss—’

               And the pavement rushed up to meet him.

               He didn’t pass out _entirely_ , because he was aware of Slade lurching forward to catch him.  But the edges of his vision crackled like scrunched up paper, and his throbbing leg went numb for just a moment, before Slade’s arm closed around his waist and hauled him back up.

               ‘Idiot!’  Slade dragged him across the street, towards a grey apartment building.  ‘For once in your life, Robin, _do as you’re told_!’

               This sounded spectacularly unfair to Robin, whose first several years of crimefighting had involved repeatedly doing what he was told, tagging behind Batman’s every step.  But now the fire in his leg was back, and he couldn’t waste his breath arguing when it took every ounce of strength just to walk, leaning heavily on Slade.

               The inside of the apartment block was a blur of grey and beige, and the ride up in the elevator was a dizzying, swaying, miserable minute of hoping he wasn’t about to pass out again—or worse, throw up.  Then Slade heaved him down another beige hallway, and kicked his way into an apartment.

               It was small.  A cramped hallway led straight into an open space, with kitchen worktops on the right, and a bed against the wall on the left.  A door past that presumably led into a bathroom, and a tiny desk was tucked in the corner.  Robin had seen better gigs in college dorms.

               ‘You live here?’ he mumbled.

               ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Slade said.  ‘It’s a safehouse.  Get on the bed.’

               In spite of the pain, in spite of the spinning in his head and the slight, continual ringing in his ears, Robin’s heart leapt into his throat as Slade dragged him towards the bed.

               ‘I’ll get blood on it,’ Robin pointed out, as Slade lowered him to perch on the edge of the mattress.  ‘Like Falcone’s car …’  He sat up straight.  ‘The car—it’s just outside.  They’ll find us.’

               ‘In this neighbourhood, left in a dark spot with the keys in the ignition?’  Slade snorted.  ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen already.’

               As if on cue, an engine outside sputtered, then roared to life.

               Slade pointed at Robin.  ‘ _Stay there._ ’  He stepped through the doorway into what Robin assumed was the bathroom.

               This time, Robin had no problem doing as he was told.  The room kept tipping from side-to-side, like a ship rocking in port, and his leg now felt like it was about to burst.  A trickle of blood seeped out from under the bandages.  He wanted to run for a hospital, but also knew he’d never make it.  His fingers crept towards his communicator.  He could phone the Titans … maybe Raven.  If anyone would understand, it’d be Raven.

               Except … he remembered the look on Raven’s face when he handed her book back.  Disappointment.  And the way she’d screamed when she found her black candles in his room, arranged in a neat circle around the chalked circle on his floor.  The look in her eyes when she saw what was floating in that circle—the way she looked at Robin afterwards—not like he was breakable, but like he was _broken_.  Like she’d walked in and found him smashed across the floor.

               Robin shuddered, and set his hand down on the bedsheets.  If Slade said he could patch him up, he could patch him up.  He’d be fine.

               Slade came back carrying what looked like half the medicine cabinet.  Setting it down on the bed beside Robin, he dragged the chair from the desk and sat opposite him.

               ‘More needles?’ Robin said wearily, watching Slade prepare a syringe.

               Slade shrugged.  ‘Unless you’d prefer to get stitches without anaesthetic?’

               Robin was faintly surprised that Slade cared to give him anaesthetic at all.  He sat back, clenching his fists in the white sheets.  ‘No.  Fine.  Thanks, I guess.’

               ‘You’re welcome.’

               To Robin’s further surprise, there wasn’t a hint of irony in Slade’s voice.  He was quiet, and for a moment Robin wondered if he was actually _worried_ —but no, as Slade bent in and slipped the needle under Robin’s skin, it was obvious he was just concentrating.  Robin hissed at the sting of a second needle in as many hours.

               Slade straightened.  ‘While that kicks in, take off your pants.’

               Robin choked.  ‘My what?’

               ‘Do I need to repeat everything I tell you?’  Slade glared.  ‘Take them off so I can stitch you up.’

               Face burning, Robin bit his tongue.  The longer Slade stared, the faster his mind worked, and suddenly he was imagining Slade pushing him down into the mattress and peeling his pants off for him.  Not because he was bleeding, but slowly, because he _wanted_ them off.

               Robin felt positively _betrayed_ by the shock of electricity that tingled up his spine.  And part of him—a petty, ridiculous part—wanted to push as hard as possible just to see the reaction he’d get.  Wanted to snap back, _Take them off yourself._

               But instead, he blew out a slow breath, and nodded, and bent to loosen his boots.

               He acutely aware of Slade’s eye on him as he kicked off one boot, then another, and then slipped his belt off and set it down behind him.  Putting his weight on his good leg, Robin lifted his hips to shift his leggings down over his hips.  Every heartbeat throbbed sharply in his thigh, but no matter how slow he breathed, he couldn’t stop his heart going a mile a minute, pounding against the inside of his chest.

               The bandages shifted away with the leggings as he slipped them down to his knees, and then tugged them over his ankles and off.  He sat up slowly, shivering in just his socks and grey boxers.  It felt weird to have his gloves on with his legs bare, so he tugged them off as well, tossing them to the floor.

               Slade shifted in closer, dragging the chair across the floorboards with a splintering screech.  His hands moved fast, and the thick leather gloves didn’t seem to hinder him.  Robin watched, pulse pounding in his ears, as Slade swiped over his leg with foul-smelling antiseptic that ought to have burned like acid, but through the anaesthetic only tingled faintly.  The suturing needle immediately afterwards hurt even less—a strange, alien tugging as Slade pulled split skin back together.

               ‘The thread will dissolve eventually,’ Slade said.  ‘So don’t pick it out.’

               ‘Yeah, because I just love picking stitches.’

               ‘With your habits for self-destruction, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

               Robin tensed, but Slade didn’t say anything more.  No rants about Robin’s sleepless nights, no demands for him to eat, no expectation that he smile and laugh and act normal.  Slade knotted the thread off, then swiped over the wound again with a warm, wet cloth.

               Now, with his leg numbed and the shot dressed and cleaned, Robin could see what Slade meant.  The bullet must’ve just grazed over his skin, cutting deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to cause serious damage.  Maybe he could go to Raven tomorrow.  Healing wasn’t her specialty, exactly, but she’d fixed up the odd scratch or black eye now and again.  She could probably get his leg recovering faster, even if she couldn’t heal it completely.

               He barely felt it as Slade pressed a wad of cotton against the stitched wound, and taped it in place.  Robin’s pulse slowed, and the weight of tiredness crept back into his limbs.  He slumped a little, sighing in relief.

               He _did_ feel it when Slade’s hand rested on his other knee.  He blinked dazedly, not really paying attention as Slade packed away the first aid kit and set it down on the floor.  He felt ready to sink into the mattress and disappear.  Not sleep—he never expected sleep anymore, and was sort of learning not to want it—but just lie quietly and doze, until he grew bored enough to get back up.

               Slade’s hand slipped up his leg.  His palm rested on the bone of Robin’s hip, his thumb dipping into the open space just above it.

               Robin frowned.  _What …_

               And then Slade’s thumb traced a circle over his skin, brushing up under Robin’s shirt.  Robin hissed, his back straightening, but his head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.  Slade’s thumb moved again, and Robin looked up into Slade’s single, cool eye.

               Watching.  Gauging.

               ‘You need to sleep more,’ Slade murmured.  ‘You’re losing you’re edge, Robin.’

               ‘Shut up—’  But Robin’s breath shuddered off as Slade’s hand slipped lower.  His thumb now dug into Robin’s thigh, caressing the bottom edge of his boxer shorts were they’d rumpled up by his hip.

               Shivers raced up Robin’s spine, but Slade’s glove was warm, creeping up his leg again, pushing Robin’s boxers back further and further.  Robin half-lifted his hand to set it on Slade’s shoulder, but then lowered it again, because—

               Because what if Slade thought he was pushing him away?

               So he closed his fingers in the sheets and breathed long, shaky breaths and _ached_ …

               ‘Either you’re hurt worse than I thought, or you’re enjoying this.’  Slade’s voice was low, with an edge almost like laughter.  Not the Joker’s laughter—high and screaming and hysterical—but something rough and warm that sent crackles through the base of Robin’s spine.  ‘Either way, you’re not stopping me.’

               For a moment, there was silence.  And Robin could stop him.  He could deny it; push Slade away; make the sensible decision.  Anything else would be stupid.  Insane.

               ‘No,’ Robin breathed.

               Slade’s thumb stilled.  ‘Put the blindfold back on.’

               Robin stopped himself halfway to asking, ‘Why?’, because—

_Do I need to repeat everything I tell you?_

               Reaching back, he tugged the blindfold from his belt.  The glue had stuck to itself, the mask now a crumpled mess, and he fumbled to peel it out flat before pressing it to his eyes.  He heard Slade shift, and for a moment Slade’s hand pressed hard into his hip and Robin hissed.  Then something touched his face—Slade’s other hand, smoothing the edges of the mask down. 

               There was something inexplicably intimate about someone else touching his face.  Something that sent fresh chills through him.  That made his skin prickle.  Slade’s fingers trailed down, and traced over Robin’s lower lip—and then he lifted both his hands away.

               Robin swallowed.  The faintest, _What the hell am I doing?_ flitted through his mind, but it was drowned out in heavy heartbeats and shallow breath and the near-painful pressure growing in his dick.

               There was the sound of metal unclipping, and the soft thunk of something hard being set on the floor.

_His mask._

               Robin sat bolt upright.  All these years, the agony of not knowing.  _Who is Slade?_   And now he was here, mask off, and he only needed one look, one glimpse—

               He didn’t realise he was reaching up until Slade caught his wrist.  His grip was hard, and suddenly warmer, rougher.  Callouses.  He’d taken his gloves off.  Something brushed against Robin’s knees, and then he felt Slade’s breath on his face, a light touch on his cheekbone.

               ‘If you remove that blindfold,’ Slade’s voice was low, deadly, and right in Robin’s ear, close enough that he could feel his lips moving, ‘the consequences will be fatal.’

               Robin couldn’t breathe.  He nodded, and Slade pushed his hand down, back onto the sheets.

               Then he pressed his mouth forward, his lips hard against Robin’s skin, just below his ear.  As Slade let go of Robin’s wrist, he pushed his hand up his leg again, not slowly this time but with purpose, and when he rested his palm on Robin’s cock Robin finally remembered how to take a breath, and groaned.

               Slade’s lips moved down to Robin’s jaw, and Robin felt both the scrape of teeth and the soft-scratch of facial hair— _Slade has a beard?_ —and he groaned again, and again as Slade’s hand moved, opening and closing, pulling gently, and the whole world narrowed down to nothing but Slade’s hand and Slade’s mouth and how burning hot every inch of Robin’s skin felt.

               When Slade gripped his boxers, Robin lifted his hips to let him drag them down, ignoring the faint, half-numbed twinge of complaint from his bad leg.  His cloak was too tight around his throat so he tugged that off as well—but then froze when Slade pressed his mouth to the inside of his thigh.

               Maybe it wasn’t the cloak after all.  Robin felt strangled as Slade moved up, each kiss ending on a nip of teeth hard enough to make Robin flinch and hiss.  He could hear Slade’s breath, low and heavy, and the soft, wet sound of his mouth moving.  Robin’s hands clenched and his toes curled, and Slade wrapped his hand around the base of Robin’s cock, and his mouth around the head.

               Robin almost screamed.  He choked it off, desperate, and he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move and couldn’t think—

               Not that he needed to move, or think.  Slade’s hand was firm and his mouth was soft, his tongue tracing hot, wet lines along the underside of Robin’s cock.  When Robin shifted his hips, Slade’s other hand set down on his hip, pressing him into the mattress, holding him in place.

               So Robin held still, gasping every inhale, moaning on every exhale.  The wet slip of his cock in Slade’s mouth was the only other sound in the room; Slade didn’t even seem to need to _breathe_ anymore.  He felt the brush of Slade’s beard on the inside of his leg, scratching yet soft.  Slade made a soft noise; a sort of low hum deep in his throat, and the way it shook through Robin almost hurt.  Behind the blindfold, his vision filled with tiny sparks of light, and he realised distantly his lashes were damp with half-shed tears.  And he _would_ reach up and brush them off, but there were two masks in the way, and anyway he didn’t want to move his hands—to risk Slade thinking he was going to rip off the blindfold.  To risk Slade _stopping_.

               Because the pressure.  The heat.  The— _fuck_ —the—

               His brain shut down.

 _Everything_ shut down.

               For a moment, one tiny moment, his bones were on fire.  Then they dissolved.  Robin slumped back into the mattress, shivering and sweating.

               He’d felt almost like this once, as a kid when he had a fever—weak to the point of collapse, somehow boneless and made of glass.  But the fever hadn’t come with ripples of warmth, or soft, satisfied tingles at the back of his neck, or Slade’s hand slipping up under his shirt.

               He felt Slade’s knee settle on the mattress, and then the heel of his hand brushing over Robin’s temple.  Robin shuddered pleasantly as Slade traced his lower lip with his thumb again, and then replaced his thumb with his lips.  He tasted sickly-bitter, a taste that instantly turned Robin’s stomach, but Robin arched up into the kiss regardless, even as Slade pressed down, his tongue curling into Robin’s mouth the way it curled around his cock.  Robin let out a soft, longing whine that he knew he’d be horrified about later, but right now he didn’t care.  He’d never felt so good.

               Slade drew back, and his voice was quiet but hard as he murmured, ‘Don’t do that for just anybody, Robin.’

               He lifted away, and Robin tried to push himself up but couldn’t find the strength.  He curled his legs in, and let out a breath, and sank down, and down, and down into the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: sex acts between an adult and a minor (Robin is 17), oral sex/blowjobs, needles (sewing up a wound), blood.
> 
> And thus does my fic earn its explicit rating. :)
> 
> Mahoosive thanks to my wonderful editor, Mana, whom we can all thank for making this scene a hundred times sexier than my first awkward draft. Thank you, hon! x


	9. Chapter 9

Robin turned over, blinked at the dark, and remembered he still had the blindfold on.  He reached up to rip it off, then hesitated.

               ‘It’s all right.’  Slade’s voice was distant, from across the room.  ‘You can look.’

               Robin peeled the blindfold away.  The earliest light of dawn was melting through the windows, glinting off Slade’s mask.  He stood by the window—not directly in front of it; he was obviously too paranoid to present an easy target, even in his safehouse—but to the side, craning his neck so he could look down at the street.

               ‘I fell asleep?’ Robin said.

               Slade didn’t move.  ‘You needed it.’

               Coming from Bruce, it would’ve sounded like a telling-off.  From the Titans, it would’ve come laden with guilt, because Robin hated to worry them.  But from Slade, it was just a statement of fact.

               Robin hadn’t slept in so long.  And definitely not a sleep that was deep, black, dreamless.  Content. At some point, Robin had unknowingly tangled himself in the sheets, and dragged a pillow down under his head.  He pushed himself up, and hissed at the sharp twinge in his leg.

               His _bare_ leg.

               Blood rushed into his face, and with it, a wave of guilt strong enough to tighten his stomach.  For a moment he was frozen, swallowing and breathing, trying not to retch.

               _What have I done?_

               This wasn’t just _working_ with Slade.  This was—this was—

               _Bruce will never forgive me._   He felt like he’d taken a punch to the chest.  Like his ribs were caving in.  And then, unbidden, another name, a _worse_ name rose in his mind …

               _Starfire._

               He pressed a hand to his mouth.  Starfire would hate him.  Never mind that she was gone, that she’d been gone for well over a year now, with scarcely an hour’s worth of scattered contact over all that time.  Never mind that they’d kissed goodbye, and agreed they might never see each other again, and agreed it was OK … it was OK if they fell in love with someone else … it was OK …

               _This is not OK._

               ‘Robin?’  Slade half-turned, tilting his head, and for the first time it occurred to Robin he did that to move things out of his blind spot.  ‘Has the anaesthetic worn off?’

               ‘I guess.’  With some difficulty, Robin scooted to the end of the bed, and leaned down to snatch up his boxers and leggings.  His skin crawled under Slade’s stare.  He stood, wincing as he set his weight on his injured leg.  ‘Agh.’  His leg shook.

               ‘Yes, I’d say that’s worn off,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I’d give you more, but you wouldn’t be able to walk.’  Slade glanced back at the window.  ‘And you can’t go back to your friends dressed like that.’

               Robin touched the hem of his shirt.  His apprentice uniform.  Slade never took his shirt off him; maybe he liked Robin wearing it.  Robin shuddered.  ‘Yeah.’  Sighing, he scooped up his belt and buckled it, and pulled his gloves on.  ‘Has someone taken the car?’

               ‘I have another.’  Slade set his hand on Robin’s shoulder, his fingers tight enough to make Robin straighten.  ‘The Titans have no right to know about this, Robin.  They don’t own you.’

               Robin stared up into Slade’s eye, a shudder running down his spine.  He waited for more—for Slade to add, _‘But I do.’_   Cold crept through him, his skin prickling.

               Instead, Slade pressed something into his hand.  ‘Eat this.’

               As he stepped back, Robin frowned at the packet in his hand.  It looked like a chocolate bar, in a plain silver wrapper.  When he peeled it back, he found … brown.  A stick of brown.  Some kind of military issue nutrition bar, he guessed.  He took a bite, and grimaced.

               ‘This is disgusting.’

               ‘I didn’t tell you to like it.’  Slade gestured him toward the door.  ‘Let’s go.’

               Robin took another bite.  It was actually kind of easier to eat, without Cyborg or Alfred staring hopefully at him.  As if pancakes drenched in syrup or pasta sprinkled in garlic would change anything.

               Limping, he followed Slade down the hallway, pausing only briefly to glance back at the rumpled sheets of the bed.

               _They have no right to know._

               Taking a breath to steady himself, Robin slipped out the door.

 

* * *

 

Robin heard voices before the elevator doors opened.  His leg burned, and it took all his willpower to push himself off the wall and limp into the living room.  Beast Boy was chattering away, his voice rising and falling wildly.

               _Just get to the sofa._   Robin forced himself to step again, and again, eyes fixed on his shoes.  The others were all gathered on the sofa, looking up at the screen.  _Get to the sofa, and sit down, and Raven can heal you._

               ‘Robin!’

               That voice—

               ‘Oh, Robin, I am so glad you made it!’

               Robin’s head snapped up.  His knees turned to water.

               Up on the wall, her smile filling the screen, Starfire beamed down at him.

               _No._   He couldn’t move.  _Not her.  Not now!_

               And he hated himself, instantly, for thinking it.  All this time he’d spent longing to have Starfire back, or even just to speak to her … but why _now_?  He felt cold all over, his skin oily, as if Slade’s fingerprints were stained on his skin for her to see.

               Starfire’s smile wavered.  Her shoulders looked broader since he last saw her, and her cheekbones were sharper.  But her eyes glowed the same sharp green.  ‘Are you … are you not pleased to see me?’

               The hurt in her face went through him like barbed wire, wrenched right through his chest.

               ‘No—no, I’m happy.’  Robin stumbled forward, the floor swaying beneath him, and gripped the back of the sofa in both hands.  He stared up at her, and it felt like some hollow part of his chest was filling up—like he’d been hungry for days, and finally had a chance to eat. ‘It’s just … like a dream.  I thought I was gonna wake up.’

               Starfire’s expression smoothed, and she smiled again.  Starfire’s smile was something incredible, like sunshine breaking through dark clouds, and he couldn’t help grinning back.  If Starfire was smiling, everything was just … OK.

               ‘Dude, we’ve been callin’ all morning.’  Cyborg’s voice was an echo somewhere far away.  ‘We were worried you’d miss her.’

               Starfire’s gaze flicked around the room.  ‘It is so good to see you all!  It has been too long.  But finally, we enjoy triumph on Tamaran!’  Her eyes flashed, and she was away—weaving tales of battle and struggle, and making every moment sound like a wonderful adventure.  No wonder Starfire’s people loved her.  She was an inspiration.

               And yet … for all that Starfire sounded bright and energetic, he could see the faint bruises under her eyes—and the darker bruises around her wrists.  She’d been in handcuffs.  And recently.

               He closed his fists.  _Damn it, while she’s fighting out there, I’ve been fucking with the enemy.  Literally._   The floor swayed again, and his bad leg shook.

               She wouldn’t be smiling at him if she knew.

               Clinging to the sofa, Robin crept around it and sat down, trying not to let the spikes of pain through his leg show on his face.  Nausea rolled through his stomach even after he sat, his thigh throbbing.

               ‘You got ’em on the ropes, Star,’ Cyborg said.  ‘I guess we’d better get your room cleaned out.  Sounds like you’ll be back and cooking for us by next week.’

               Starfire laughed, but it was strained.  ‘Oh, I wish it were so.  I have missed my friends so deeply … and now.’  She folded her arms.  ‘You must tell me everything that has happened since we last spoke.  Which villains have you fought?  How did you defeat them?  Why is Beast Boy harvesting a small rodent on his face?’

               Beast Boy grinned, scrubbing the meagre peach fuzz—or, Robin supposed, _green_ fuzz—on his chin.  ‘It’s my rugged, manly beard.’

               ‘He’s too lazy to shave,’ Raven growled, deeply long-suffering.

               ‘Everyone at karaoke club _loves_ my beard,’ said Beast Boy, falling back on his favourite excuse.  ‘Well, except Britney.  She didn’t show up last night.  I think she’s sulking because Robin won’t show up.’  He leered at Robin, who ignored him.

               He couldn’t ignore the way Starfire’s gaze fell on him, though.  The way her brow knitted, and her mouth grew small.  ‘Robin, are you well?  You seem …’

               Robin scrubbed a hand through his hair self-consciously.  He hadn’t looked in mirror since before he went out last night.  He doubted the hair gel had lasted, and he probably stank of stale sweat, and gunpowder, and—

               _Slade._

               He shuddered.  ‘I’m fine, Star.’  But the words half-stuck in his throat and came out croaky and small.  _They have no right to know._   But that didn’t stop the guilt coiling in his stomach, twisting and tightening like a python.  He looked at the other Titans, and they returned his stare, unforgiving.

               ‘Fine,’ Cyborg scoffed.  ‘He was out all night again on his own.’

               Starfire’s expression turned tragic.  ‘Oh, Robin …’

               He tried to curl in his feet up onto the sofa, and yelped as a lance of pain shot up his leg.  He folded, clutching his leg.  ‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly, as they lurched closer to him.  ‘Just a scratch.’

               Starfire looked as though she was about to say something else, but a tinny crash sounded somewhere far behind her camera, and she turned sharply.  Her shoulders sagged.  ‘I must go.’  She looked back into the camera, eyes wide and sorry.  ‘I will call again soon.’

               The others muttered their goodbyes, and Robin tried not to show that his chest was emptying again, a great ragged hole filling the space behind his ribs, ripping up whatever was left in there.  It was getting easier every time they had to say goodbye.  But that didn’t mean it was easy.

               The screen went dark, and Robin sagged back in the sofa, rubbing his temple.  He could feel the others staring at him, and took a sharp breath before turning to face them.  ‘Why’d you have to do that?’

               ‘Do what?’ Cyborg folded his arms, glaring.

               ‘Worry her!’ Robin snapped.  ‘We get to talk to Star once in a million years, and you had to waste it complaining about me.  She’s got enough on her mind.  And I’m _fine_.’

               He pushed himself to his feet, meaning to storm to his room, and of course, his leg chose that moment to give out entirely.

               And not just his leg.  The edges of his vision faded, swooping into a grey tunnel that he plummeted straight down, the room spinning sickeningly.  He had the barest moment of clear thought— _This is gonna hurt_ —and then Cyborg grabbed his arm.

               His grip was strong, and hurt like only a mechanical hand could, with no skin to give.  Robin yelped, blinking hard as his vision slowly fizzled back in.  He put his other hand on Cyborg’s arm for a moment, breathing slowly, getting his balance back.

               He glanced up at Cyborg, and wilted.

               The anger was gone from Cyborg’s face—from everyone’s faces—and instead, his eyes were wide and alarmed.  Alarmed but … not surprised.  _He knew I was gonna fall,_ Robin realised, with creeping horror.  _He was waiting for it._

               ‘See.’ Cyborg said.  ‘You can’t even walk.’

               Robin pushed him off.  He knew the effort was futile—Cyborg’s strength far outmatched his—but Cyborg let him go with a heavy sigh.

               ‘You’re killing yourself, Rob.’

               Robin’s stomach plummeted.  At the far end of the sofa, Beast Boy’s green face had gone the colour of sour milk.  _I’m worrying them.  Again._

               ‘I just had a long night.  I’m OK—’  But the instant he put weight on his leg, it buckled, and Cyborg lurched to catch him again.

Cyborg drew breath to argue, but Raven swept past him, taking Robin’s other arm.  ‘I’ll look after Robin.  Go take care of the vault.’

               For a moment, the room was still and quiet, the tension crushing.

               Then Cyborg sighed, and stepped back.  ‘Yeah, OK, sure.  C’mon, BB.’

               Beast Boy glanced between Raven and Robin, and an instant later he was a green mouse, scampering up Cyborg’s leg to ride his shoulder as he left the room.

               Letting out a slow breath, Raven looped Robin’s arm over her shoulder.  ‘You should probably sit down.’

               ‘Thanks,’ Robin breathed, lowering onto the sofa.  Thank god for Raven.  Thank god for one other member of the team who understood not wanting to attract stares and attention.  ‘It’s my leg.  Could you … ?’

               ‘Mm.’  Raven knelt at his feet and lifted her hands.  She didn’t touch; didn’t need to.  Her hands hovered inches over his skin, glowing soft white.  ‘Cyborg’s right, you know.’

               Robin didn’t respond.  Raven’s hands traced over the stitched wound, and ice-cold spread over the throbbing pain.

               She scowled.  ‘This isn’t just a scratch.  What happened?’

               No point lying.  ‘I got shot.’  He swallowed.  ‘A little bit.’

               Raven looked up at him wearily.  ‘A little bit?’

               ‘The bullet grazed me.’

               ‘Who patched you up?’  She flexed her fingers and cold spread deeper.

               Robin shrugged.  ‘Paramedic on the scene.’

               He could tell she didn’t believe him, but he also knew that if he kept talking, he risked making stupid mistakes; the lie would only get more obvious.

               ‘So how come your pants aren’t ripped?’

               Robin closed his eyes.  Speaking of stupid mistakes.  ‘Maybe it was a magic bullet.’

               ‘Sure.’  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t lift her hands away.  When she spoke again her tone was soft.  ‘Robin, we’re not … we don’t …’  She sighed heavily.  ‘I suck at this.’

               ‘Me too.’

               She looked up at him, smiling faintly.  He returned the smile, although it wasn’t as easy as it had been with Starfire.

               ‘So what’s up with the vault?’ he said.

               Raven’s eyes narrowed briefly, like she wasn’t pleased with him changing the subject.  ‘There was a security breach last night.’  As Robin straightened, she added, ‘We don’t think it’s serious.  They didn’t attack us—just rooted through the basement.’

               ‘Did they take anything?’

               She tensed, and he could tell she was weighing up whether she should tell him.  ‘Nothing much.’

               ‘Raven …’

               Wincing, she said, ‘It was Slade’s mask.  The old one, the one you cracked in half.’

               Robin’s heart stuttered.  ‘The hallucinogenic?’

               ‘Cyborg says there was none left in the mask.  Slade won’t be torturing you—or anyone—with that again.’  Finally, Raven lowered her hands.  ‘That’s the best I can do for now.  Try and rest it, OK?’

               Robin drew breath to agree—and was cut off by the wail of the alarm.  He raised an eyebrow.  ‘You were saying?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to participate in the SladeRobin Weekend over on Tumblr but - gah - life got in the way. Well done to everyone more organised than me, I've seen such great stuff. Maybe next time!
> 
> Thanks to my stunning beta editor Mana - and to everyone reading, commenting and leaving kudos! x


	10. Chapter 10

Robin didn’t know why he’d expected to sleep.

               Sure, he was so tired he felt like his brain had been scooped out, and his bones replaced with cold lead bars, and his muscles ground to powder.  Sure, getting in the shower felt like such an effort, he was tempted to just collapse and die instead.  Sure, his leg now hurt like Satan was digging his clawed hands two knuckles deep into Robin’s skin.  But by the time he’d washed changed into a soft t-shirt and dropped onto the bed … of course he couldn’t sleep.

               Out of stubbornness, he stayed in bed regardless, wishing he could find that soft, dark, dreamless rest he’d had in Slade’s safehouse.

               Guilt touched the edge of his stomach, but he was too tired for it to really get its claws in.  Besides, the thought of that bed with the thin, soft sheets in Slade’s safehouse was somehow so much more comforting than his own bed here in the Tower.

               He wasn’t sure, exactly, how long his stubbornness lasted.  By the time he got up, it was dark outside.  He’d handed Raven that armour Slade gave him to check out.  Maybe she was done with it.  Pulling his uniform back on, he dug the black candle out from behind the bookshelf and shuffled to Raven’s bedroom.

               _He’d shoved all his furniture back to make room.  His fingertips were powdered white from the chalk, his knees smudged where he’d crawled over the circle a dozen times, drawing and scrubbing out and re-drawing until it matched the picture in Raven’s book exactly.  A lump filled his throat as he set the black candles down around the circle, but his heart drummed with anticipation._

_He could still do it._

_He could still save Jason._

               Robin wasn’t too worried about waking Raven up in the night.  She seemed pretty nocturnal at the best of times; usually the first one out of her room at night if the alarm sounded.  He rapped on her door, and waited for it to slide open.

               She had her hood up, and looked up at him with the careful, blank expression that meant he’d caught her in the middle of meditation.

               ‘Sorry.’  Robin held out the candle.  ‘I brought you this back.’

               Raven took it silently.

               Robin hesitated.  ‘That armour … ?’

               ‘Nothing magically unusual about it,’ Raven said.  ‘I gave it to Cyborg to scan.’  Her eyes narrowed.  ‘Where’d you get it?’

               Robin shrugged.  ‘Anonymous fan.’

               He could tell she didn’t believe him for a moment.  But, unlike Cyborg or Beast Boy, Raven didn’t call him out on it.  She just frowned, and her eyes flicked down to the candle.

               ‘That’s the last of them,’ Robin promised.  Then, as her frown deepened, he said quickly, ‘I’ll go see if Cyborg’s finished the scan.’

               ‘He’s probably asleep,’ Raven pointed out.  _Like you should be._   But she didn’t say it.

               Robin stepped back.  ‘I won’t disturb him.  Thanks.’

               For a moment, Raven looked as though she might leap out and stop him.  But then she gave a short nod, mumbled a goodnight, and shut the door.

               _Robin read over the passage again and again.  Raven’s book was ancient, the leather cover crumbling, the paper brown.  The writing was tiny, some long-dead scribe cramming every letter he could into the space.  But Robin had practised.  Hell, he’d looked up the pronunciations._

_Nothing was allowed to go wrong._

_Taking a deep breath, Robin knelt at the edge of the circle, and began to read._

               Maybe he had slept after all.  His leg certainly hurt less—more of a dull ache now than a stabbing pain.  He put that down to Raven, her magic likely still working now, weaving the torn skin together.

               His head felt better, too.  Not perfect, but clearer.  Rested.  And he had enough energy to walk to Cyborg’s lab without stumbling, or leaning on the walls.

               As expected, the lab was empty.  Cyborg was sleeping—or recharging, anyway—in his room.

               Robin’s boots clacked on the linoleum floor as he walked across the dark space.  No point turning the lights on; he could see enough from the glow of the large screen monitor on the wall.  The armour from Slade was spread out over a table below the monitor, a dozen lasers and wires and Robin couldn’t guess what else connected up to the material.  The read-out showed a blue loading bar, full at 100%.  Beneath it, thin black letters read, _SCAN COMPLETE, ZERO ANOMOLIES FOUND._

               He quietly disconnected it, and gathered the armour up.  Slade would be smug.  But maybe this would stop the next bullet someone aimed in his direction.

_At first, the words came slowly.  Then, as Robin turned the page, he began to feel as though he were reciting a familiar song.  His lips formed the next word, and the next, each one utterly foreign to him, and yet he didn’t need to think about them at all.  His tongue moved without thought._

_And the words … echoed._

_It was like another voice, chanting with him.  A voice right behind him—as if sitting with their lips almost touching the back of his head._

_His hands shook, but he didn’t turn.  Once the spell started, he mustn’t stop.  He knew that much.  Don’t break the circle, and don’t stop chanting._

_It seemed like a wisp of smoke at first.  Just the faintest, palest shape, twisting in the middle of the circle.  Then, slowly, it grew.  The smoke spread and stretched, and became the shape of a person, standing, their feet just hovering over the chalk._

_Goose bumps prickled up Robin’s arms, but his heart was pounding in the best possible way, like he was running a marathon and winning.  The longer he chanted, the louder the voice behind him grew, and the stronger the shape in the chalk circle.  His face smoothed, and Robin recognised that hard jaw, those deep-set eyes._

_Jason._

_He didn’t even need to look at the book anymore.  Breathless, he chanted, the words coming up from out of his chest, as if they’d been buried there his whole life, waiting for this moment.  For this chance to save his brother._

_And then the door opened._

_His brain barely even registered ‘Raven’—just a scream, long and sharp and horrified, and then the void-black whirlwind that tore through his room.  He leaped to his feet with a cry as the candle flames sputtered out, and Jason’s eyes locked with his for one second before he too was blown away._

_Raven stormed across the chalk circle, smearing the lines as she marched toward Robin.  Her voice echoed against the walls, louder by far than the voice speaking behind Robin’s head—the voice that was now gone, fled just like Jason’s ghost._

_‘What’ve you done?’ Raven screamed, and it took Robin a moment to even realise she was now speaking English, her voice hoarse and fast and panicked.  ‘Robin, are you insane!  What’ve you done?’_

_‘I was bringing Jason back!’ Robin lurched a step forward, fire bursting through him.  He grabbed Raven by the arms, and she winced.  He tightened his grip.  He wanted to crush her.  ‘And you chased him away!’_

_For a moment, she was still.  Then Robin felt the tension in her body ease under his hands._

_She looked down.  ‘That wasn’t Jason.’_

_‘I saw him.’_

_‘But you can’t see like I can.’  Raven blinked, lifting her gaze.  For just a moment, her two eyes became four, blazing crimson, each scalding right through his skin.  Robin flinched, letting her go, and her eyes went dark again.  ‘Worse things than the dead can come through a gateway like that.’  She swept a hand out, gesturing at the smudged chalk.  Her brow knitted, and her shoulders sagged.  ‘It wasn’t Jason.  I’m sorry, Robin.’_

               In his room, Robin carefully buckled the armour on over his costume.  It fitted perfectly, moulded to his body, and moved easily when he twisted.  He tried a few kicks and spins, and—yeah, it was heavy, a little bit, and it felt weird to be so padded up.  But it felt good, too.

               His communicator beeped.  Straightening, Robin flicked it open.  The name _JOHN SMITH_ flashed on the screen.  Robin glanced at the closed door, then stepped a little further back before he hit the answer button.

               ‘Slade?’

               ‘How’s your leg?’  On the screen, Slade’s eye had that thin, tilted look that meant he was grinning.

               Robin arched an eyebrow.  ‘Great.  I’m thinking about getting shot every day.’

               ‘I have another lead,’ Slade said.  ‘This one shouldn’t be so … strenuous.  But if you need more time to recover …’

               ‘I’m ready,’ Robin said quickly.  ‘Whereabouts?  The old place?’

               ‘Crawling with Falcone’s lackeys.’  Slade rolled his eye.  ‘The safehouse is better.  Wear plain clothes.  I’ll bring your uniform.’

               Robin gritted his teeth.  _I have to wear that again?_   But before he could complain, Slade hung up.  Growling in frustration, Robin tossed the communicator on the bed and tore through his wardrobe.

               The Titans just didn’t _do_ plain clothes, or secret identities.  He had next to nothing.  He finally managed to drag a pair of dark jeans and red hoodie on over his uniform.  He hesitated at removing his mask … but if anyone pulled him aside …

               Sighing, he stashed the mask in his belt, hiding it under his hoodie.  In its place, he slipped on a pair of black Ray-Bans, an old gift from Bruce.  Sure, he’d look stupid wearing them in the dark, but it was better than nothing.

               He stuffed the armour in a rucksack, and slipped out of his room—and didn’t notice Raven peeking out her bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beautiful editor Mana! x


	11. Chapter 11

Robin tugged the hood lower over his forehead and ducked into the apartment building.  Hurrying to Slade’s door, he knocked, his chest tight, feeling somehow more conspicuous in jeans than he’d ever felt in his bright uniform.

               The door clicked open, and Robin slipped inside.  As Slade shut the door behind him, the tension in his chest released and Robin sighed.

               ‘Don’t you look normal.’  Slade closed the door softly.

               Robin shot him an irritable look, shoving back his hood and digging in his belt for his mask.  ‘I see you haven’t bothered with plain clothes.’  He turned away to yank off his glasses and stick his mask on.  His shoulders sagged.  Better.  For one thing, he could actually _see_ without the dark, tinted visor of the Ray Bans.  But also he just felt … naked, without his mask.

               _Not that you mind Slade seeing you naked._

               Robin suppressed the warm shiver that went down his spine, and ignored the heat pooling in his lower belly as he turned back to Slade.

               ‘I assure you, I looked like a perfect civilian when I arrived,’ Slade said.

               Robin shrugged.  ‘Dunno why.  We turned up in our uniforms last night.’

               ‘Last night was an emergency,’ Slade said.  ‘I don’t make a habit of advertising my safehouses.  We were lucky we weren’t followed before, and I don’t want to risk it again.’

               ‘So that means … ?’

               Slade held his gaze levelly.  ‘We will be walking back _out_ of here in plain clothes.’

               Robin’s stomach swooped.  ‘You’re gonna take your mask off?’

               He got the impression Slade was smirking.  ‘I can hide my face without a mask.’

               Robin raised his eyebrows—but before he could ask, his communicator rang.  He snatched it up, angling the camera away from Slade.  What were the Titans calling for now?  An emergency?  He flipped it open.

               _JUMP PD_

               His heart stuttered.  He glanced up at Slade, turning the screen to show him the name.

               Slade’s grey eye widened, but he nodded.  ‘Answer it.’

               Robin turned the screen back before hitting the answer button, blocking Slade from view.  ‘Robin here.’

               ‘Robin, it’s Officer Bartlett.  We met at the crime scene the other day.’

               Robin recognised the officer with grey hair, and nodded.  ‘Something wrong?’

               ‘Sort of.’  On the small screen, Officer Bartlett tugged his shirt collar.  ‘We’ve got more information on that Thomas Newton case.  There was another killing.’

               It felt like someone had closed their hand around Robin’s throat.  The blood crept out of his face, his skin growing cold.  ‘Who?’

               Officer Bartlett’s grey brow furrowed.  ‘Another kid.  Older this time, closer to your age.’

               ‘Can you send me the details now?’

               He nodded.  ‘I’ll send them on through.  Just look after yourself, kid.’

               Robin tried to force his lips up into a smile, but couldn’t manage it.  ‘Sure.  Bye.’

               The screen went dark.

               ‘Another killing,’ Slade said.  ‘I hadn’t heard about it.’

               The communicator screen lit up as Robin got the details through.  He opened them with a tap, and scanned over the first few lines.  His eyes widened.  ‘You wouldn’t.’  He handed the communicator to Slade.  ‘It was in Gotham.’

               Slade took the communicator, fingers tracing briefly over Robin’s, sending a flash of warmth through Robin’s body.  Robin watched, mouth dry, as Slade read over the report.

               ‘This happened when you were in Gotham,’ Slade said.

               ‘I know.’  Robin covered his face with his hands.  ‘Shit.  _Shit._   I was there.  The killer came for me—he came after _me_ and I got away, so he went and killed someone else!  This is my _fault_!’

               ‘Don’t be pathetic, Robin.’  Slade held the communicator out, but Robin didn’t take it.

               ‘W-what?’

               Slade sighed.  ‘Unless you personally branded—’ he glanced at the communicator, ‘—“SLUT” into Jack Harvey’s chest, I don’t think you can claim the credit.’

               Robin took the communicator.  ‘What?’  His voice was hoarse.

               ‘They even used my symbol for the S.’  Slade rolled his eye.  ‘Creative.’

               Looking down at the screen, Robin’s stomach turned as he was faced with the autopsy photos.  Officer Bartlett was right; this kid was older than Thomas Newton, his shoulders broader, his jaw stronger.  Jack Harvey.  Seventeen.  He looked like a football player; probably on the school team.  And branded blood-red over his heart was the word the killer whispered in Robin’s ear.

               _SLUT_

               Robin blinked.  The screen was blurry.  Then he realised it was because his hand was shaking.

               Surely Bruce knew about this?  The report said Jack Harvey had been dressed in a cheap Robin costume, just like the last victim.  No way would that go over Bruce’s head.  He would _know_.

               So why hadn’t he told Robin?

               Swallowing, Robin took a long breath to steady himself, then hunched over his communicator and started to type.

               ‘What’re you doing?’  Slade stepped closer, and Robin skittered back.

               ‘I’m logging into Batman’s computer system.  I wanna see if he’s got any more information.’  _If he’s got any information at all._   Robin glanced up.  ‘I’m not letting you see how to log in.’

               ‘Oh, Robin.  And I thought we’d learned to trust one another.’  But Slade’s eye was crinkled in a way that meant he was smiling, and he didn’t come any closer, instead taking a seat on the corner of the bed.

               _The bed …_

               A ripple of tingles raced over Robin’s skin and he shook himself.  How _dare_ he think—think about _that_?  There were more important things.  A boy was dead.

               Because of him.

               He tapped the last button and closed his eyes as the communicator loaded.  _Don’t be pathetic._   It was a weirdly comforting.  Of course Slade would see it as taking credit.  But he was also right.  Self-pity wasn’t helpful right now.  That was why he didn’t like the Titans worrying about him.  It didn’t fix anything.  It just made them all miserable.

               The communicator beeped as it loaded up the front page for the Batcave.  Robin opened his eyes, and got to work tapping through Bruce’s folders.  The titles were unhelpfully cryptic—deliberately so, because if someone unsavoury snuck into the Batcave’s system, why should Bruce make it easy for them?  But Robin knew Bruce too well, and located the right folder in a few seconds.

               He tapped the folder, and the screen flickered.  Then—

               _ACCESS DENIED_

               Robin stared.  _What?_   Bruce had never denied him access to a folder before.  Scowling, Robin tapped a few more keys.  Whatever.  Bruce had clearly lost his edge if he through a little thing like denied access was going to stop _Robin_ from reading whatever he wanted.  As if Robin hadn’t spent the last several years watching Cyborg kick down every type of cybersecurity known to man.

               A few more clicks and … yes!  Robin straightened, scrolling through the same details from the police report he’d just read.  Bruce had taken notes, covered each page with theories and messages and notes.  At the end of the report, Bruce had made a separate document for suspects.

               ‘Let’s see who the bad guy is,’ Robin murmured.

               He tapped the first link—

               _DEATHSTROKE_

               Robin frowned as the page loaded up, because that sounded familiar …

               And then the picture came up on the screen, and his stomach sank into his feet.  ‘Oh _crap_.’

               ‘Anything you feel like sharing?’  Although Slade hadn’t moved, his tone was obviously impatient.  He was respecting Robin’s privacy, but he clearly wasn’t happy about it.

               ‘Batman’s number one suspect.’  Robin turned the screen around.  ‘It’s you.’

               Slade drew tall, pulling his shoulders back, and for a moment Robin thought he saw a flash of concern in that single grey eye.  But then Slade nodded.  ‘That makes sense.  My symbol was branded into both victims.’

               Robin snapped the communicator closed.  ‘You don’t get it.  Batman is hunting you.  _Batman_.’

               ‘So is Falcone.’

               Robin snorted.  ‘Falcone’s _nothing_.  Since Jason died, Batman breaks kneecaps first and asks questions later.  You’re screwed.’

               For a moment, Slade was utterly still.  Then, so quietly it was almost a whisper, he said, ‘Since _who_ died, Robin?’

               ‘Since—’  Robin stopped.

               Robin’s _heart_ stopped.

               He said Jason.

               _He told Slade Jason’s name._

               For a moment, he could almost imagine Jason rising from his grave just to give Robin the ass-kicking he deserved for being so fundamentally _stupid_.  He’d never slipped up before, not once, not even when he was eight years old and he first put on those dumb green shorts.  Bruce would skin him alive.

               ‘I told you that you need to sleep more,’ Slade said.  ‘You’re making stupid mistakes.’

               And in an instant, the horror flooded out of Robin, and all the loathing he’d momentarily directed at himself went shooting outward.  Outward at Slade.  Outward at everyone who’d fussed over him the last few months, demanding that he eat, that he sleep, that he be _normal_ when nothing was normal anymore.  That he keep on living as if nothing had changed when Starfire was gone and his brother was dead.

               ‘I can’t,’ Robin snapped.  ‘I’ve tried.  I can’t sleep, so you and everyone else can stop telling me to.’

               Slade rose to his feet, and for a moment Robin shrank as he was reminded just how huge Slade was.  How Slade hadn’t always been an ally—wasn’t exactly an ally even now.  Of how hard Robin knew he could hit.  Hard enough you could swear your ribs had cracked and your lungs imploded.

               Slade said, ‘You slept fine last time you were in this bed.’

               Robin tried to speak, and choked, blood rushing into his face.  ‘That was—that was different.’

               He waited for Slade to push further; to drag some kind of painful admission out of him.  That he’d liked it.  That he wanted it again.  Wanted more.  Robin’s breath stuck in his throat, and he wasn’t sure what he’d say.

               But as Slade stepped closer, he only said, ‘What’s in the bag, Robin?’

               Robin let out a breath.  _Relief, or disappointment?_   He pushed the thought aside, swinging the rucksack off his shoulder.  ‘The armour you gave me.’

               Slade’s eye thinned as he smiled.  ‘I’m touched.’

               Robin shrugged.  ‘I didn’t want to get shot again.’  He set the rucksack at his feet and unzipped it, tugging out one of the arm guards.  He bent it experimentally, and it moved without resistance.  Eyes fixed on the armour, Robin muttered, ‘Someone broke into Titan’s Tower.  They took your mask.  The one you used to _drug_ me that time.’  He flicked his gaze up, venom creeping into his tone.

               Slade, however, was unapologetic.  ‘And, naturally, you suspect me?’

               ‘No, actually.’  Robin lowered the arm guard, dropping it back into the rucksack.  ‘But I bet the Titans do.  Raven didn’t even want to tell me—I guess she thought I’d go Red X on them again.  But why would you bother breaking into the Tower to steal a broken mask when you have that one?’  He nodded at the mask Slade was wearing.  ‘Cyborg says there’s no more of that drug in it, and it’s not like you’re sentimental.’  He folded his arms.  ‘Besides, if you got into Titan’s Tower, you wouldn’t skulk around the basement.  You’d find a way upstairs and smother us in our sleep.’

               ‘A shot to the head is cleaner, actually.  Less struggling,’ Slade said.

               Robin grimaced, expecting fear to tighten his chest, or for his stomach to flip.  But no, he realised with mild horror, he was actually learning to tell when Slade was joking.  ‘Remind me why I work with you again?’

               ‘Because I’m the only one who can help you catch this killer.  Who I presume is the genuine mask thief.’

               Nodding, Robin shifted to the desk in the corner of the room, leaning against it.  His leg didn’t hurt, exactly—Raven’s magic really had done wonders—but it ached, all the way down to the bone.  ‘So this lead of yours?’

               Slade nodded, reaching back to lift a familiar pile of black clothing off the bed.  ‘Put this on under your plain clothes.  The armour, too, although you shouldn’t need it.  I can tell you with some authority, it doesn’t protect against psychics.’

               Robin took the clothes, eyes widening.  ‘Psychics?’  He set the pile down on the desk, unzipping his hoodie and tugging off his boots.  ‘Like Raven?’

               ‘Madame Zara’s … _gifts_ … aren’t the same as Raven’s, no.’  Slade hesitated.  ‘Unless Raven has recently taken to holding tea parties with the dead.’

               Robin’s spine locked.  He was back there in an instant—his dark room, the black candles flickering, the chalk lines on the floor.  They way everything smelled of smoke and burning wax right up until Raven burst in.

               ‘No,’ he said slowly, tugging his jeans down to reveal the green leggings underneath.  ‘No, Raven doesn’t do that.’

               He unbuckled his belt, hanging it over the back of the desk chair.  Then he hesitated, because Slade was watching, and despite the fact he’d spent half a night here naked from the waist down, the idea of taking his clothes off in front of Slade sent heat shooting into his face.

               ‘Go on, Robin,’ Slade said softly.  And it almost sounded like a threat.  _Go on … or else._

               A deep breath.  Robin reached up, gripped the back of his shirt, and pulled it over his head.  He tossed the shirt down on the chair, goose bumps breaking out all over his skin.  He hadn’t really looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, definitely not without his shirt on, and when he glanced down he was surprised to see ribs where muscles used to be.

               Shivering, Robin pulled off his gloves and dropped them on top of the shirt.  He could just grab the black-and-orange shirt now, but … Slade was still looking at him.  Still staring.  And that stare didn’t hold any pity, or any apology.  Just hunger.  Hunger, like he wanted what was in front of him so bad he almost couldn’t hold back.

               Heat and cold flooded through him, one chasing the other, and Robin’s hands felt near to trembling when he hooked them under his leggings and slowly peeled them down.  He kicked them off one foot, and the other, and straightened, wearing nothing but his boxers—

               And before he could take a breath, Slade swept forward, and pinned him against the desk.

               Robin’s head spun.  Slade pressed closer, his body warm and solid against Robin’s waist.  The desk dug into his ass, and Slade gripped his hips in both hands.  Robin’s breath went shallow as Slade lowered his head so Robin could see the shadow of his lips moving behind that dark mask.

               ‘After we’ve dealt with the psychic,’ Slade murmured, ‘you will come back here, and strip for me again, and I will fuck you until you scream.’

               He pressed his hips in a little harder, and Robin almost screamed right there.  He strangled the sound off, a hoarse, croaked whimper.

               ‘Agreed?’ Slade hissed.

               Robin nodded.  When he thought he could trust his voice, he said, ‘Yes.’

               Slade drew back, and Robin shivered, his knees buckling.  He grabbed the desk with both hands before he could do something truly embarrassing, like collapse out of sheer sexual frustration.

               He took a few deep breaths, then reached for his apprentice uniform.  The room was cool, and that helped as he fought to calm the pounding of his blood; the ache in his cock.

               ‘What I wouldn’t give,’ Slade said quietly, ‘to hear you say “yes, master”.’

               Robin managed to summon a withering look.  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

               Although he suspected, if Slade did that to him a second time, he’d say anything to make sure he didn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the warmest of thanks to my lovely editor Mana! x


	12. Chapter 12

Robin snuck outside first, feeling bulky with his apprentice uniform and Slade’s armour layered under his hoodie.  The warm evening air pressed in close, and his mouth went dry.  This time of year in Gotham, layers would be cosy.  In Jump they were torture.

               He flicked his hood up and kept his head down.  After a few minutes, a figure stepped up beside him.

               Robin glanced up.  Slade had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and a dark coat with the collar pulled up, a scarf spilling out—

               ‘Eyes forward, Robin,’ Slade said.  ‘You wouldn’t want to see something you shouldn’t.’

               Swallowing, Robin forced his eyes down.  He fell back a pace, allowing Slade to lead—and giving him a chance to steal glances.  Slade had covered up pretty well.  The scarf was loose, hiding everything up to the tip of his nose, and a black hat covered his head down to his eyebrows.  But Robin could see a patch of skin by his temple, and pale hair at the back of his neck, a thin black band of elastic going behind his ear, as if he were wearing one of those costume masks Thomas Newton and Jack Harvey were killed in.

               Robin shuddered, and lowered his gaze.

               It would be so easy to look.  To _really_ look.  He could just grab Slade’s elbow and pull him around.  He could step closer and look up.  And he’d finally see it.  Slade’s face.  Or at least part of it.  More than he’d ever seen before.

               It was an ache, so deep in his chest he almost couldn’t breathe.  And the longer he didn’t look, the deeper the ache burrowed, digging in with claws of guilt.  He was a Teen Titan.  He was Robin.  He wanted to _know_.

               But—

               He stayed back, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, head down.

               Because if he betrayed Slade now, where did that leave him?  Alone, trying to find this killer.  The Titans would fuss and Bruce would worry, and Robin would wind up on the floor in another alley somewhere, thinking _I’m not going to die like Jason_ until he had his hands around somebody’s throat …

               Slade turned suddenly, slipping down a thin alley between two apartment blocks.  Robin followed, but turned his back when Slade swung down the duffle bag and pulled out his mask.

               _Last chance to look._

               Robin bit his tongue.  Finding the killer was more important.  For now.

               ‘You can look,’ Slade said, and Robin turned, already unzipping his hoodie.  The plain clothes went in the duffle bag, and the duffle bag went behind a dumpster.

               They walked out the alley, Robin feeling at least semi-normal without the hoodie.  He followed Slade up to one of the apartment buildings, where in the window beside the door, glaring bright neon lit the street purple.

               _MADAME ZARA – PSYCHIC READER_

               Robin eyed the sign warily, folding his arms as Slade pressed the buzzer.  A muffled voice rang through the intercom.

               ‘Who is here to see Madame Zara?’  The woman on the intercom had a thick accent.  It sounded vaguely Eastern-European; Russian, or Romanian, or some weird mix of the two.

               ‘Let us in, Zara.’  Slade’s words were clipped, like he was losing patience already.

               Madame Zara’s sigh crackled over the intercom.  ‘Slade.  Fine, come in.  Make it quick.’

               The front door opened with a click and Slade pushed through, Robin following quietly.  Inside, the hallway was smart and clean.  The first door on the right was open, with a scowling woman leaning out.

               She looked like she’d bought her dress at a renaissance fair, and then buried it under mountains of scarves wound around her hips, the layers giving her roughly the silhouette of an upturned wine glass.  As she waved them in, she jangled with too many beads and bangles.  ‘Hurry, hurry, Madame Zara does not have all night.’

               Her stencilled eyebrows rose as she spotted Robin, but she didn’t stop him—just ushered him inside and closed the door.

               Her apartment was lit only by the neon sign in the window, purple light throwing shadows across the walls.  A crystal ball glinted in the middle of a round table, surrounded by patterned clothes and dog-eared astrological chats.  Robin gagged at the cloying smell of incense.  Raven occasionally burned it at the Tower, but she had the decency to keep the fumes confined to her own bedroom.

               ‘So—’ Madame Zara swept past them, apparently unintimidated by Slade’s terrifying height and scornful glare, ‘—what can Madame Zara do for you?’

               ‘Information,’ Slade said.

               Madame Zara sagged.  ‘Madame Zara is not a villain anymore.  I make an honest living from my powers.’

               Slade rolled his eye, and Robin frowned.  He’d known Slade to be mocking before, or dismissive, or even angry when Robin disappointed or disobeyed him.  But he’d never seen Slade show an active _dislike_ for someone before.

               And Slade definitely disliked Madame Zara.  Everything from the way he glared to the way he angled his body back, as if trying to avoid touching her, screamed to Robin that he found the woman about as appealing as a cockroach in the shower.  _I wonder if she’s an ex-girlfriend._   But Robin shook the thought away, because the concept of Slade having ex-girlfriends seemed frankly more insane than the idea that this woman really _was_ a cockroach in disguise.

               Withering under Slade’s glare, Madame Zara turned instead to Robin.  ‘And who is this, a new boy wearing your uniform?’  She grinned, revealing lip-stick stained teeth.  ‘I know your face.  You’re a Teen Titan.’  She glanced briefly at Slade.  ‘How the mighty have fallen.’

               Robin’s stomach lurched, but he fought to keep a neutral expression.  He was meant to be Slade’s apprentice, after all.  ‘You mean me, or Slade?’

               Madame Zara laughed, an explosive cackle that made him jump, and Slade huff.  ‘I like this one!’  She folded her hands on the table, leaning towards Robin.  ‘I sense dark energy around you, child.  I sense death.’

               ‘Since we’ve come investigating a murder, that’s not an impressive reading,’ Slade said.

               Madame Zara ignored him.  ‘You have lost someone close to you, no?’  At Robin’s wide eyes, she sat back, nodding.  ‘Yes, Madame Zara sees.  Was he older?  A grandfather?  Madame Zara speaks to a lot of grandfathers … but no.  No, I think he was younger than you, wasn’t he?  Younger, but close to your heart.  Like a brother.’

               Chills swept down Robin’s spine, but Slade stepped in, close enough that his arm pressed against Robin’s.  ‘Everybody knows the Robin in Gotham City died.  Stop your cold reading and do some real work.’

               This time, Madame Zara didn’t scowl.  Her eyes flicked from Slade to Robin, back and forth, and a thin smile touched her lips.  Robin’s stomach jolted.  _She knows._   He lurched away from Slade.  _She knows about—_

               But Madame Zara only said, ‘You know Madame Zara does not do that anymore, _Deathstroke_.’

               Robin raised his eyebrows.  Deathstroke—that was the name in Bruce’s file.  But Madame Zara used it mockingly, like it was an insult.

               ‘I say you do.’  Slade set a fist on the table, leaning forward.  ‘You still have a lot of enemies, Zara.  I hope you’re protected.  I’d hate for something terrible to happen to you and your … honest business.’

               Madame Zara narrowed her eyes.  For a moment, she was silent, but she seemed to take Slade’s veiled threat seriously.  ‘I need something of the person.’

               Digging in his belt, Slade drew out a tiny folded packet of brown paper.  Madame Zara took it, and sat at her table to unfold it, pushing the crystal ball aside.  She smoothed the brown paper out and raised her eyebrows.

               ‘This is good … this will work.’

               Robin stepped in closer, peering at the packet through the dim light.  Sat in the middle of the packet were a few strands of black hair.

               ‘Thomas Newton’s,’ Slade said, and Robin gawped at him.

               How the hell did he get hold of Thomas Newston’s hair?

               Shuddering, Robin turned back to Madame Zara.  _I don’t want to know._

               Madame Zara picked up the hair, setting it in her upturned palm.  She glanced up at Slade.  ‘After this, you do not come to Madame Zara again.  Not for anything.’

               Slade tilted his head in acknowledgement.

               Taking a deep breath, Madame Zara sat back, and closed her eyes.  For a while, she was still, breathing slowly, her hand hovering in front of her.  Robin shifted, glancing up at Slade, but Slade’s eye was fixed on Madame Zara.  As Robin turned back, Thomas Newton’s hair twitched in her palm, disturbed by some tiny air current.

               ‘Yeah, practise was good,’ Madame Zara said suddenly.

               Robin jumped.  Her voice was loud, and her accent was completely gone.  She now spoke in a familiar Jump City accent—relaxed, more open than the nasal twang he’d grown up around in Gotham City.  Slade straightened, his eye gleaming.

               Robin stared up at him, brow knitted.  ‘What—’

               Slade raised a hand to silence him.

               ‘Aw crap!’ Madame Zara cried.  ‘It’s so late.  My folks are gonna kill me!’  A brief pause.  ‘Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow!’  This last line she called out, as if shouting to someone walking away.

               Robin’s stomach filled with lead.  He had an awful, creeping idea of what Madame Zara was doing.  He glanced up at Slade and then back at her, over and over.

_But Slade acted like she was a fraud.  Like she’d made all this psychic stuff up._

               Obviously not _all_ of it.  Madame Zara spoke again, in what Robin realised with a growing cold feeling in his bones was _Thomas Newton’s voice_.

               ‘H-hey man, you OK?  You, uh, you look kinda sick there.’  She quiet for a moment, and then cried out, loud enough to make Robin skitter back a step.  ‘Holy crap, your face!  I’m—I’m gonna call an ambulance, OK man?  Just hang tight.  No—no just stay there.  Stay there.’  Her voice leapt up an octave.  ‘Stay back!’

               Chills stampeded down Robin’s arms, and he had to fight the urge to turn and glance behind him as the back of his neck prickled.  This was Thomas Newton, facing his murderer.  A lump rose in Robin’s throat as Madame Zara made a few loud, gulping yelps, and suddenly went silent.

               Trembling, Robin let out a slow breath.  He forced his tense shoulders to release.  That was how Thomas Newton died  His stomach flipped over and he tensed again, trying to hold down bile.  At least it was over—

               But Madame Zara made another sound, a sleepy, almost drunken mumbling.  Robin couldn’t make out clear sentences, but the odd murmur almost sounded like a word.  Like Thomas Newton was trying to force something out of clenched teeth.  ‘Let … go … no …’

               Robin’s heart was already pounding when Madame Zara opened her mouth and _screamed_ , an elongated, agonised wail.  Not like a woman in pain, but like a child, full of tears and half-sobs and _why, why does it hurt?_

               Thomas Newton was awake—he was alive—when the killer branded him.

               The scream grew ragged, and Madame Zara sagged as it cut off entirely.  She blinked, and stared at Thomas Newton’s hairs on her palm before gently tipping them onto the table.  Then, without so much as a glance at either Robin or Slade, she stood, and walked out the room through a door on the left.  Robin heard the echoing, wet rasp of her vomiting into the kitchen sink.

               She was psychic.  She was really, actually psychic, and she’d just channelled a ghost.  And all she’d needed was a few hairs.

               Robin’s heart pounded.  The chalk circle flashed into his mind, and the black candles, and the words he’d chanted.  The spectre that appeared in the circle, looking so much like Jason—

               Madame Zara staggered back into the room, pale.  She glared at Slade.  ‘I hope you got what you wanted, you sick bastard,’ she spat.  Her accent was gone.  It wasn’t Thomas Newton’s Jump City accent, either.  She voice was plain, and completely at odds with all her scarves and bangles.

               ‘You can contact the dead,’ Robin breathed.  Jason, she could contact Jason—

               ‘Fuck the dead,’ Madame Zara snapped.  ‘They’ve done nothing but scream in my ear, all my life.’

               Robin’s blood turned hot as molten iron.  ‘You have no idea what I’d give to talk to the dead.’

               Madame Zara let out a hoarse bark of laughter.  ‘Why, so psychos like your friend here can get a kick out of hearing their last words?  Hearing them die, again and again?’  She sneered, glancing between them.  ‘Or is “friend” not the right word?  What is this kid to you, anyway Slade?  Your apprentice?  Your fucktoy?’

               Robin launched himself over the table.  All he could hear was the ringing in his ears, so loud it was almost screaming, and the blood pounding through him like drums.  His fist crunched into Madame Zara’s nose.  As she fell back, his second punch went into her ribs.  His vision clouded, red as the _S_ branded into Thomas Newton’s chest.  She slammed into the wall and he lunged, reaching for her throat—

_He was on the floor, choking on blood, the concrete pressing into his face.  Each fresh kick sent a new explosion through his body, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep breathing when every breath felt like taking a knife between the ribs.  He didn’t even remember how he got here—a misstep or an overreach and suddenly these clowns had him on the floor, taking hit after hit and unable to get up.  Not supervillains, not even gangsters.  Just a group of lame crooks._

_Lame crooks with tough boots._

_And a crowbar._

_The man with the crowbar advanced, and Robin went cold as stone.  He couldn’t get up._

_They were going to kill him._

_A dark figure dropped from above, and with a roar slammed into the guy with the crowbar._

_The other crooks spun around, shouting at the newcomer.  Forgetting Robin.  Just for a second._

_And next thing Robin was on his feet, moving through blinding pain, screaming and not caring who heard.  He swung a punch, and another, but god, he hurt so bad.  If he went down again he wouldn’t get back up._

_The crook with the crowbar raised it overhead._

_Robin kicked out, and knocked him flat.  He leaped forward before Crowbar could recover, kicked the weapon away and wrapped a hand around Crowbar’s throat.  And then the other hand.  Crowbar choked and spluttered and struggled, hard at first, then growing feeble, but Robin gritted his teeth and clenched harder._

_‘Robin.’  A hand landed on his shoulder.  ‘Robin, let him go.’_

               ‘—Robin, let her go.  I said let _go_ , Robin.’

               With a jolt, Robin was back in Madame Zara’s parlour, his hand around her throat as she clawed at his fingers, her pale face going steadily blue.

               He ripped his hand away, stumbling back.

               Slade caught him, and drew him away.  ‘Deep breaths, Robin,’ he murmured, his voice barely audible over the squealing in Robin’s ears and Madame Zara’s ragged gasping.  Slade set his hand on the small of Robin’s back, and Robin shuddered as something like static shot up his spine.  ‘That’s my boy.’

               Madame Zara slumped in her chair by the table, retching on every other breath.  Finally, slowly, she looked up at them both.  Robin tried to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but he couldn’t speak.

               ‘What have you brought into my house?’ Madame Zara growled.  There was an instant’s silence, and then she shot to her feet, eyes fixed on Slade.  ‘How dare you!  His touch—what have you done?’

               ‘Robin lost his temper,’ Slade said.  ‘Don’t be dramatic.’

               ‘His temper!’ Madame Zara screeched.  ‘I don’t care about his temper!  I _felt_ it when he touched me.  He’s played with black magic!  And you brought him into my house, you invited him in!’  She shuddered.  Her eyes snapped down to Robin.  ‘Worse things than the dead can come through a gateway like that.’

               And Robin recognised that low, soft croak.  That tone.  The exact way she’d said it.  He went utterly cold, a cold that ached deep inside his bones.

               ‘Get out of my house,’ Madame Zara hissed.  ‘Get out, and don’t come back.’

               Slade set his hand on Robin’s shoulder, and Robin didn’t resist—he let Slade draw him away, out of the apartment, out of the building, and down the street.  It wasn’t until Slade let go of his shoulder to reach for the duffle bag behind the dumpster that Robin’s stomach finally rolled, and he turned and vomited against the wall.

               Or, at least, he tried to vomit.  He hadn’t eaten in—god, since Slade gave him that nutrition bar—so instead he retched, and spat half a mouthful of burning bile.  Bracing his hands against the wall, he shivered.  He’d just heard a kid die.  An innocent kid.  And then—

               Slade set his hand on Robin’s shoulder.  ‘You’re all right.’

               And Robin didn’t know why, but it was somehow better than, _‘Are you all right?’_

               He took a shaky breath, and nodded, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.  ‘I almost killed her.’

               ‘Don’t worry.  She deserved it.’

               Robin shot him a filthy look, and Slade laughed softly.

               ‘She likes to play the victim now, but thirty years ago, Zara was infamous.  You’ve never known a woman so enamoured with murder.  She stalked Jump City searching for people to kill, stringing out their deaths as long and painful as she could—and then repeating them, word-perfect, for her “psycho” clientele.  For as astronomical price, of course.’

               ‘She didn’t seem that enamoured to me,’ Robin muttered.

               ‘Yes, well.’  Slade tilted his head.  ‘Her enemies caught up with her.  They killed her son and made her replay it, the way she replayed all those other deaths.  She lost her taste for death after that.’

               Robin’s skin prickled, his stomach turning again.  He swallowed.  ‘So that’s why you don’t like her.’

               ‘I don’t like her because she’s a fraud,’ Slade said.  ‘She simpers and hides and plays the victim, when in reality she is a killer.’

               Robin snorted.  ‘Right.  My mistake.  For a moment there I almost thought you had a moral compass.’  He hesitated.  ‘But you didn’t let me kill her.’  He glanced up at Slade.  ‘Why?’

               Slade ran his hand down Robin’s arm, a slow, gentle touch that sent shivers running all through his body.  ‘Do you want to be a killer, Robin?’

               ‘No.’

               Slade squeezed his arm.  ‘That’s why I didn’t let you kill her.’

               The cold and the shivers and the sickness melted away, and as Robin swallowed, a tiny bubble of warmth rose in his chest.  He smiled faintly, and could see Slade smile back from the way his eye crinkled.

               Right before the gunshot burst through the alley, and cracked Slade’s mask in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a few people were hoping for smut, so I'm sorry I couldn't get to it today! I promise it is coming very soon! x
> 
> As always, the biggest hugs go to my editor Mana, who makes sure I just keep torturing Robin as much as possible. :)


	13. Chapter 13

Slade’s head snapped to the side.  He twisted and fell back, his mask clattering to the ground in pieces.

               ‘SLADE!’  Robin grabbed for his arm, but Slade slipped out of Robin’s grasp and hit the pavement hard.

               He didn’t move.

               The gunshot echoed in Robin’s ears, and it seemed like hours before he could draw breath.

               Slade’s mask was gone.  He was older that Robin expected.  Older than Bruce.  Fine lines bracketed his mouth and underscored his eyes—and he wore a black eyepatch on his blind side.

               And he still wasn’t moving.  Still wasn’t breathing.

               Blood streamed from his white hair into his short-cut beard, spreading over the pavement—

               The second shot hit Robin in the chest.

               It felt like a strike from a baseball bat, clearing the air from his lungs.  Robin folded, falling to his knees.  It felt like his sternum had caved in.  He touched his chest.  No blood.

               _Slade’s armour._

               Gasping, Robin looked up.  Where was the shooter?  No one in the alley, no one in the street beyond, or in the apartment windows opposite.  His gaze flicked up, and— _there!_   On the roof a figure straightened, turning away.

               _No you don’t._   Robin glanced back at Slade, lying still on the ground, blood staining his hair, and his stomach lurched.  But he forced himself up.  _You don’t get to get away._

               He set off running, wrenching his grappling hook from his belt.  He shot for the rooftop, and grunted at the pain in his chest as he jerked up into the air.  But his grip didn’t loosen, and he swept up onto the rooftop as the shooter snapped his briefcase closed, locking his gun away.

               The shooter looked up, just in time for Robin to kick him in the face.

               With a grunt, the shooter landed next to his briefcase.  He rolled and sprang up, pushing his jacket back to reach for a pistol at his hip.  Robin dove in close, running on blind instinct, heart thudding, and knocked the gun up just as the shooter fired.

               The shot was like a crack of thunder landing right beside him.  Robin sent an elbow into the shooter’s chest, and then the heel of his hand up under his chin.  The shooter stumbled, grunting in pain.  Reaching up, Robin snatched the gun from him.

               Letting out a furious roar, Robin snapped his foot up a second time.  He landed his kick in the shooter’s stomach; the shooter doubled over and went down, wheezing.

               Robin stepped forward, teeth gritted, breathing hard.  Hands tight around the gun.  Shaking.

               His fingertip traced the trigger.

               He could.

               He _could._

               But—

               _Do you want to be a killer, Robin?_

               He lifted his finger off the trigger.  In a few quick motions, he emptied the bullets out and tossed them over the roof, before dropping the gun at his feet.  Instead, as the shooter trembled on the ground, feebly trying to catch his breath, Robin tugged his stun-gun from his belt.  One shot, and the shooter slumped.

               Digging out his communicator, Robin sent his location to Jump PD, and then grappled back down to the street.

               Slade was still on the ground.

               _He got shot in the face._

               There was a cold, empty pit in Robin’s chest, somewhere he knew there’d be pain later, when the adrenaline wore off.  The words _Slade is dead_ crossed his mind, but without meaning or feeling.  Slade didn’t die.  Slade shook off being tossed in lava.  Slade was stripped down to his own skeleton and stormed on like it wasn’t a problem.  How could he just lie there, grey-faced and unmoving, from something as small and pathetic and _mortal_ as a bullet?

               ‘Slade?’  Robin inched closer.  His feet were leaden.  He stared at Slade’s face, and it looked so fundamentally wrong without that mask.  _Guess I finally got to see._   Robin shuddered, hating himself.  He felt like his bones had turned to cardboard, like any second he was going to buckle under his own weight.

               Slade winced.

               Robin choked, rushing forward and stumbling to his knees.  Slade’s hand came up and Robin grabbed his wrist, hauling him up into a sitting position.  He grunted—Slade was _heavy_ —but didn’t let go of his arm.  Blinking his one eye, Slade brought his other hand up to touch his bloody temple.

               ‘You’re alive,’ Robin croaked.

               ‘Obviously.’

               ‘You got _shot in the head_.’

               Slade’s brow furrowed, and Robin stared, open-mouthed, because it was so bizarre to see any expression at all from Slade.  To not spend all his time staring at one solitary eye, trying to track the way it wrinkled or tightened or widened.  Slade lowered his hand, leaving a wet, red smear down the side of his face.  He tipped his palm, and a bullet hit the ground with a quiet clink.

               ‘You—’  Robin realised he was still clinging to Slade’s arm.  He let go.  ‘You have super healing?’

               ‘I’m not Superman, but I manage.’  Slade winced, touching his temple.  ‘Zara must’ve called Falcone.  You took out the shooter?’

               Robin nodded, numb.

               ‘Good work.’  Slade’s gaze flicked up to meet Robin’s.  ‘You’re staring, Robin.’

               Swallowing, Robin glanced away, at Slade’s shattered mask on the tarmac.  ‘Your mask …’

               ‘I have spares.’  Slade swept to his feet.  ‘And I trust you won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen.’  He gave Robin a thin, bloody smile.

               Shaking his head, Robin pushed himself up.  ‘I won’t tell.’

               ‘You did will, Robin.’  Slade set his hand on Robin’s shoulder.  ‘I’m proud.’

               Warmth swelled in Robin’s chest, and he didn’t know if it was the praise or the contact or just the sheer, overwhelming relief that Slade wasn’t dead.

               Slade let his hand slide off Robin’s shoulder, trailing for just a moment down his chest, the touch so fast and light it could’ve been accidental.  Reaching up, he brushed blood off his forehead.  ‘Let’s go.  I want to wash this off before I’m blind in both eyes.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I have a little message today - I'm travelling for work next week so my update schedule may go a bit screwy for Thursday. I promise I WILL update during the week, but the next chapter is a big one with a good dose of smut, so I really want to get it right for you! The update after that will be on Sunday as usual. :)
> 
> You've all been so lovely in your comments - every single message really brings a smile to my face, so thank you all so much!
> 
> And as always, big squishy hugs to my wonderful editor Mana. x


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for being so understanding with my screwy update schedule this week! I actually managed to get some time to edit tonight, so I'm just going to upload right away to be safe. Sorry it means a long wait until the Sunday chapter, but I really hope you all enjoy this one! x
> 
> As always, super duper thanks to my lovely editor Mana, who put so much work into getting this chapter just right. Love you, hon!

Robin nibbled on a handful of trail mix, shrugging off his hoodie and unclipping his armour.  Slade’s safehouse was quiet, except for the hum of the shower and the soft bubbling of hot water on the stove.  His heart finally stopped thumping when they got inside, but his legs were still twitching.

               And he was _hungry_.  He’d forgotten how it felt for his stomach to growl, or ache with emptiness.  The trail mix was bland and dry, but it gave him something to chew on.  He kicked off his boots, then his jeans, leaving just his uniform underneath.  His reached for another handful, and was surprised to find the bag empty.

               Packing his armour in his rucksack, Robin edged up to the stove and peered suspiciously into the pans.  Two brown plastic bags bobbed in the hot water.  Tiny black print on the side claimed they were beef casserole.  Any other time, Robin would’ve wrinkled his nose, but right now bland military-issue boil-in-a-bag casserole sounded better than any amount of pizza or pancakes or Alfred’s best pasta.

               _Does Slade live on this stuff?_ he wondered.  And then, _Does that mean Slade was in the military?_

               He glanced at the bathroom door, where the only reminder of Slade’s presence was the constant hum of the shower.  Rinsing off the blood.

               Slade had seemed naked enough without his mask.  The idea of him in the shower, water spraying off his bare shoulders, running down his skin …

               Robin swallowed, heat flooding into his face.

               When his communicator went off, he damn near hit the ceiling.

               He tugged it from his belt and flipped it open.  His stomach lurched when he saw the name on the screen.

               _BATMAN_

               Robin hissed a curse.  If he didn’t answer, Bruce would think something was wrong.  He’d call the Titans.  And they’d panic, and come looking for him.  Biting his lip, Robin hit the answer button.

               ‘Robin.’  Bruce had the cowl up, and from the dim background Robin could tell he was sitting in the Batcave.

               ‘What’s wrong?’ Robin said, trying not to look at the bathroom door.  As long as he kept the camera angled this way, Bruce could only see his face and the white kitchen tiles behind him.

               ‘Someone logged into the Batcave remotely earlier.’

               Robin raised his eyebrows, and now he could see that, behind that cowl, Bruce’s eyes were narrowed in a scowl.

               No point in lying.  Not to Bruce.  ‘That was me.’

               ‘Looking for something in particular?’ Bruce said.

               A flash of irritation shot through Robin’s chest.  What, he wasn’t allowed to access the Batcave anymore?  ‘Why, is there something you’re hiding?’

               ‘Robin—’

               The shower shut off, and Robin looked up.  He could hear Bruce talking, but it was a blur underneath the clearer sound of Slade shifting in the shower, and opening the door with a click.

               ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Robin said quickly.

               He caught a flash of Bruce’s frown, and the words, ‘Robin, is there someone with—’ before he shut the communicator with a snap.

               Slade stepped out of the shower, a towel wound tight around his waist.  Robin froze, staring at him, heat building in his face, feeling guilty wherever his eyes fell.

               The gunshot that should have killed him was now a purple-black bruise, rapidly fading at the corner of Slade’s left eye.  His other eye was split with two white scars, one crossing straight down the middle, the other running from his brow across his tear duct.  His right eye—his blind eye—was misty white from corner to corner.  When he blinked, his right eyelid twitched, not quite closing all the way.

               Slade caught Robin’s stare.  ‘It’s glass.’  He reached into his duffle bag, drawing out the black eyepatch he’d worn before.  He slipped it over his face, the black band settling in his pale hair.  ‘I suppose you feel quite triumphant, seeing my face at last.’

               ‘Not really,’ Robin said quietly.  ‘Mostly just … glad you’re not dead.’

               For a moment the room was quiet, and Robin wondered if he’d said something he shouldn’t.

               Then Slade nodded at the stove.  ‘That’s ready to eat.’

               Despite his denial, Robin realised he was staring at Slade’s face, drinking in every detail.  He lowered his gaze—which didn’t help, because now he was staring at Slade’s bare chest.  And holy hell, the man had muscles on top of muscles, still damp from the shower.  Swallowing, Robin turned and switched off the water.

               ‘How come your eye never healed?’  He wasn’t sure if the question was allowed.  When Slade stayed quiet, Robin got on with picking the plastic bags out of the water, setting them on the side to cool while he rummaged in the drawers for cutlery.

               But finally, Slade said, ‘I lost it before I got the power to heal.’

               Robin pressed his lips together, but figured _in for a penny …_ ‘How?’

               ‘Would you believe me if I told you it was my vengeful ex-wife?’

               Robin snorted.  ‘No.’

               ‘I thought not.’

               Finding scissors, Robin cut the top off the plastics bags and handed one to Slade, along with a scavenged fork with bent tongs.

               They ate straight out of the bags, Robin’s stomach rumbling with every bite.  He shovelled down three forkfuls before wrinkling his nose.  ‘This is awful.’

               Slade smirked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.  ‘Stop complaining and eat.’

               ‘I can do both.’  But Robin put his head down and ate.  He leaned back on the counter, digging his fork into the packet until he reached the bottom.  The casserole was bland and soft, the meat chewy and the vegetables limp and anaemic.  But it was easy to eat, somehow, and by the end of the packet his stomach felt comfortably full for the first time in weeks.  He set the empty bag on the counter, then caught Slade’s when he tossed it over.

               ‘Who called you?’  Slade glanced at Robin’s communicator, now resting at his hip.  ‘Was it important?’

               Robin scowled.  ‘Not really.’

               Slade arched his eyebrow.  ‘If you say so.’  He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees.  ‘Come here.’

               The way he said it, his voice dipping almost into a growl, sent shockwaves rocketing up Robin’s spine.  He hadn’t forgotten Slade’s promise, and now he trembled as he stepped closer, bare feet soft on the carpet.

               Slade reached out and set a hand on Robin’s hip, drawing him in until he stood between Slade’s knees.  Robin’s heart shot up into his throat, thumping a slow, heavy rhythm.  He licked his dry lips, and Slade ran his hands slowly up the sides of Robin’s body, fingers pressing into his ribs, and then back down to his hips.  His palms slid back, and down, and Robin tensed as Slade’s fingers glided down over his ass to the backs of his legs.  He pulled Robin in closer, until Robin’s legs pressed hard against the edge of the bed, his hips brushing the edge of Slade’s towel.

               Slade slid his hands away, and sat back.  ‘Strip.’

               Robin shivered, heat rushing into his cock.  He reached up over his head, grabbing the back of his shirt, and pulled it off.  Cool air hit his skin and he erupted in goose bumps—although that was also probably to do with the way Slade was staring.  The face was unfamiliar, but that one grey eye was just as Robin had always known it, focused and sharp.  Sliding the sleeves down his arms, Robin dropped his shirt on the floor.

               He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings, biting on his lip as every heartbeat sent another jolt of heat through his body, straight into his cock.  And the longer Slade stared, the more the cool air didn’t seem to matter.  Robin was burning.  He stepped back, and slid the leggings down, kicking them off.

               He straightened and— _oh god_.  Robin flushed scarlet.  His dick already strained against his boxers, leaving a damp patch against the material.

               ‘Don’t stop,’ Slade murmured.  ‘I want to see.’

               That sent another shiver through him.  Robin’s breath was already shaking and he didn’t know how much warmer he could get, or how much longer he could stand Slade staring at him, _wanting_ him.  He swallowed, and slipped his boxers down.

               Slade leaned back for just a moment, his eye running all the way down Robin’s body and all the way back up.  He didn’t say anything, and for one, cold moment, Robin wondered if he was disappointed.  Robin glanced down and winced.  When had he got so skinny?  He’d always been wiry, but at least he’d looked _strong_.  Now … a crease formed over Slade’s eyebrows and his lips thinned, and Robin panicked, pulling his arms in to cover himself.

               ‘No, you don’t.’  Slade reached forward, closing his hands around Robin’s wrists.  ‘Don’t you hide from me.’

               He tugged Robin closer, then slipped one hand down behind Robin’s leg.  Lifting it, Robin slid his knee across the sheets, and then the other, until he sat open-legged on Slade’s lap.  Nothing between them but the towel.  Robin’s breath fell shallow and his head went soft and foggy, and Slade leaned in and pressed his lips to Robin’s throat, just under his ear.  Robin felt the scrape of teeth and groaned.  And then Slade set his hands on Robin’s hips and pulled him in, arching forward so Robin’s cock brushed the hard muscles of his stomach, and Robin closed his eyes and groaned again, louder.

               ‘I could look at you all night,’ Slade said, low, right in Robin’s ear, ‘if I didn’t want to fuck you.’

               He brushed Robin’s face with the backs of his fingers—and then pinched the edge of Robin’s mask.

               Robin opened his eyes, inhaling sharply.

               Slade didn’t move.  ‘Keep it on if you want.’

               Robin’s mouth was half-open, and he _shouldn’t_.  He knew he shouldn’t.  Bruce would kill him.  Bruce would more than kill him—he’d skin him alive, and cut him into pieces, and boil those pieces and feed them to stray dogs.

               But Slade had already lost his mask, and it didn’t seem fair for Robin to have the advantage …

               And besides, what business was it of Bruce’s?

               Robin closed his mouth.  _Fuck Bruce.  He doesn’t trust me anyway._

               ‘Take it off,’ he said.

               It was a weird sensation, someone else peeling off his mask.  The glue stuck to his skin, and he blinked as unfettered light flooded in.  As Slade set the mask aside, he felt more naked than ever.

               Slade ran his thumb over Robin’s brow, staring up into his face with an expression close to triumph.

               Then he twisted his hips, and Robin sprawled over with a yelp, landing on his back on the bed.  An instant later Slade was over him, his mouth on Robin’s throat, his collar, his jaw, his hand slipping down Robin’s chest, across stomach, and curling around his cock.  Robin moaned, raising his hips, bucking into Slade’s slow, aching strokes, and Slade closed his mouth over Robin’s lips, his beard soft on Robin’s chin, his tongue pressing into Robin’s mouth and slipping back, following the rhythm of his hand.

               Robin couldn’t breathe, and his skin was on fire, and he never, ever wanted it to stop.

               He barely noticed when the towel slipped off Slade’s hips—barely felt it hit his legs—but then Slade lowered his body and his cock brushed against Robin’s, and Robin made a sound like he was being strangled.

               Catching Robin’s wrist, Slade drew Robin’s hand down their bodies, and Robin wrapped his fingers halfway round both of them, and tried to pull and squeeze and loosen as Slade moved, but his head was getting so fuzzy it was hard to think of anything at all except that he needed more.

               So when Slade pulled back, and then stood, he couldn’t help the hoarse whimper.

               Slade traced his fingers down Robin’s thigh.  ‘One moment, Robin.’

               He stepped away and bent to reach in the duffle bag.  Robin recognised the shiny silver packet of a condom, and he could make a pretty good guess about the clear plastic bottle Slade brought back with him.

               Heart skipping, Robin propped himself up on his elbows.  ‘I’ve—I haven’t—’

               Slade set a hand on his chest, pushing him gently down.  ‘Relax, Robin.  I promise you’ll like it.’

               And then, as if to deliberately shut his brain down again, Slade curled his hand around Robin’s cock, and Robin couldn’t help but fall back and close his eyes, savouring each wave of pressure.  When Slade pulled his hand away, Robin unthinkingly reached down and replaced it with his own.  Slade made a low noise of approval, sending a shudder up Robin’s spine.

               When Slade touched him again, his hand was wet, cool enough to make Robin jump.  He stroked Robin once, twice, and swiped his thumb over the precome beading at the tip of his cock.  Robin tipped his head back and sighed.  And Slade’s hand trailed lower, down over his balls, until his fingertips were rubbing slow soft circles around Robin’s ass.

               Robin tensed, and Slade’s other hand went straight to his dick, moving slow enough to be agonising.

               ‘Relax,’ Slade said again.  ‘Deep breaths, Robin, relax.’

               Feeling a complete coward, Robin clenched his hands in the blankets … then loosed them, focusing on Slade’s hand on his cock, on the rush of sensation, on his burning skin.  He’d heard it was meant to hurt, but it didn’t, when Slade pressed his finger forward.  It was—strange—a kind of warm pressure.  And when Slade moved his hand, all the hairs on Robin’s arms stood up and he let out another sound, almost as low as Slade’s voice.  He planted his feet and lifted his hips, moving with the pressure.  Sparks burst behind his closed eyelids as Slade pressed in another finger, and another, and suddenly _that_ felt better than the hand on his cock, that heated, stretching, aching sensation.  And god, he was so close, he could feel the orgasm building in his lower belly—

               So when Slade drew away a second time, Robin had to clamp his teeth together to hold back the frustrated scream.

               He opened his eyes and watched Slade tear the condom open and roll it down his cock, and bit into his lip so hard he thought he might break the skin.  Because _fuck_ , that looked so much bigger than fingers.  But he wanted it.  He wanted Slade over him, in him, wanted to hear Slade gasp and groan and to feel every inch of it.

               Slade rubbed lube into his palms, and then over his cock, and reached out with his other hand to spread more over Robin’s ass, pushing in with each of his fingers again.  Robin tilted his head into the blankets, panting as Slade slid his knees in closer.

               He pressed in, and now, _now_ it hurt.  Robin’s fists clenched in the blankets and he screwed his face up, catching the whine of pain as fire spread through his lower body.  No longer a sweet, hot burn, but scalding, stinging.  He gasped, about to beg Slade to stop—when the pain suddenly, abruptly ended.

               ‘That’s it.’  Slade touched Robin’s knee, pushing his legs open further.  ‘That’s it, look at me, Robin.’

               Robin opened his eyes, and looked up into Slade’s face as Slade drove his hips forward.  And yes, fuck yes.  Robin raised his hips and arched his back, mouth open and moaning and he didn’t care if he sounded embarrassing because he felt so unbelievably fucking _good_.  Slade planted his hands by Robin’s shoulders and drove into him, and Robin wound his hand around his own cock and gasped and whimpered and groaned.

               Slade hit something inside him that sent stars exploding behind Robin’s closed eyes and he _screamed_ , angling upwards further, dying for more, because another hit like that—

               ‘Call me “Master”,’ Slade growled, lowing his head to kiss and nip at Robin’s throat.  ‘Say it now and no one will know.  Say it.’

               Robin bit his tongue and screwed up his eyes, because no way in hell was he dropping to that level.  Not even if Slade’s voice made his cock throb in his hand, and set off sparks in his lower spine.  No way.

               Slade closed his hand around Robin’s upper arm, his grip utterly crushing, for the first time as if he truly meant to hurt.  ‘ _Say it, Robin._ ’

               The pressure of his orgasm was back, but he could feel Slade’s strokes slowing, and he knew instantly the bastard meant to drag this out, to force the word out of Robin’s mouth.  And Robin was too close to even feel angry—just desperate, thrusting up, clinging to the edge of coming.

               ‘Master,’ he gasped, ‘master, fuck, please, master—’

               Slade lifted his head, and grabbed Robin by the hips and drove down so hard Robin shrieked, each stroke tearing through his nerves like hot knives.  Robin came so hard his head spun, gabbling broken words in between repetitions of ‘master’, as his brain totally shut down until he couldn’t think of a single thing beyond the fact he seemed to be exploding out of his own body.

               Slade snarled, and for a moment his hips stuttered, the rhythm lost.  His fingers dug into Robin’s ass so hard it hurt—and then, panting, he pulled back.  Robin winced, because suddenly being empty felt so wrong, but an instant later he dropped back into the sheets and nothing had ever been so perfectly comfortable in his life.

               He heard Slade moving, and forced himself to blink his eyes open and sit halfway up, because he knew, really, it was rude to just fall asleep.  ‘Slade?’ he said, his voice croaking softly.

               Slade glanced over his shoulder from the end of the bed.  He reached back and touched Robin’s ankle.  ‘Go to sleep, Robin.’

               That was all Robin needed.  He slipped back, and slept.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Robin turned over, smoothing his arm across the sheets.  The other side of the bed was pleasantly cool, and he stretched into it with a sigh.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed this fuzzy kind of half-sleep.

               And hand slid over his back and came to rest between his shoulder blades, a warm, heavy pressure.  The touch was easy, content to be unmoving.  And Robin was content, too, swimming down into sleep and drifting back up to find that touch still there, perhaps on his shoulder or his knee or the back of his neck, depending how he’d twisted in his sleep, but regardless, always present.

               When he woke up to light creeping through the window, Robin groaned.  He was sprawled on his back, Slade’s hand resting on his wrist.  Blinking through the cloud of sleep, Robin looked up.

               Slade sat beside him, one leg curled in, the other dangling over the edge of the bed, as if he’d got halfway to standing up and changed his mind.  He stared down at Robin, and there was a touch of amusement in his eye—or maybe triumph.  Either way, Robin felt blood rise into his face.  Had Slade just sat there staring at him the entire night?

               ‘What time is it?’  Robin pushed himself up against the pillows, still just too comfortable to sit up properly.  Slade’s hand slipped off his wrist, and he immediately missed the contact.

               ‘Almost six,’ Slade said.  ‘Go back to sleep.’

               Robin drew his knees up and curled over them, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.  ‘Can’t.  My friends will wonder where I am.’  He dropped his hands, shoulders sagging, and sighed.  He ached all over—in his hips and his back and his ass.  But worst of all in his chest, a tight, sharp pain that stabbed every time he inhaled, forcing to him to breathe slow and shallow.  He glanced down, and winced.  ‘Oh, crap.’

               The bruise was black in its centre, blossoming out to purple and scarlet and brown in faded patches.  The gunshot.  It hurt when it hit him, but then the adrenaline must’ve kicked in and numbed the pain.  Between fighting the shooter and discovering Slade was alive, and getting back to the safehouse—

               And—

               Robin shifted, feeling again the ache where Slade fucked him.

               And _that_.

               He touched his chest lightly, winced, and glanced up at Slade.  ‘Those healing powers …’

               ‘They only work on me,’ Slade said.  ‘If I could heal you, I wouldn’t have had to stitch your leg up.’

               ‘Yeah.’  Robin sighed, running his fingers over the bruise.  The lightest touch sent sharp pain down into his ribcage.  ‘I guess when I get home Raven’s gonna have to patch me up again.’

               ‘You don’t sound eager to go back.’

               Robin lowered his head, resting his chin on his knee.  ‘I guess not.’

               There were silent a long time, and he felt in waves both mortified, sitting here naked in bed next to _Slade_ of all people, and … strangely comfortable.  At peace, in a way he hadn’t been for weeks.  Maybe ever.  And the thought of dragging himself out of bed and into his uniform, and stumbling back into the Tower to face their worried stares and suspicious glances …

               ‘I’m just sick of them fussing over me,’ he burst.  ‘As if I’m gonna jump out the window or something.  And I have to smile and try and act normal.  It’s like I’m not even allowed to be sad Jason’s dead.’  He let the name slip out, and didn’t care.  Slade already knew, so what did it matter?  He stretched his legs out, looking at Slade briefly, and giving a weary half-smile.  ‘Sorry.  I guess you’re not a “feelings” kind of guy.’

               ‘Not particularly,’ Slade admitted.

               ‘Me neither.’  Robin swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  As he got up and scooped his clothes off the floor, he waited for the guilt to kick in.  Or the shame.  Instead, he could only think about Titan’s Tower, and his friends, and grew slower and heavier every second, his warm bubble of peace gradually eroding.

               _I don’t want to go back._   He hesitated, fingers curled around his shirt.  Beneath the constant ache of his bruise, his chest felt hollow.  When he got to the Tower, his energy would drain away and he’d be left feeling grey and separate, trying to ignore when his friends cast sideways glances at him.  Trying to ignore their suspicion.

               _They’d be a hell of a lot more than suspicious, if they knew …_

               Robin straightened, tightening his fists.  He couldn’t talk to his friends.  He couldn’t talk to Bruce.  He just needed time away.  Time to think.

               He hesitated.

               ‘Slade,’ he said.  ‘This safehouse … we could stay a while, right?’

               Slade shifted on the bed, giving Robin that fixed stare that always sent shivers down his spine.  ‘For now.’

               ‘Until we find this murderer?’

               Slade inclined his head.

               Taking a deep breath, Robin ducked, pulling on his boxers.  ‘I could go back to the Tower and pack a bag.  I’ll tell my friends I’m going away for a while.  They’ll get it, if I say it the right way.’  _The way they ‘got it’ when I said I wanted to visit Gotham._   Robin swallowed, reaching for his leggings.  ‘Then I could stay here.  We could work on the case full time—no more sneaking out at night.’

               He stopped, because Slade was still staring, his eye cold as flint, and he hadn’t moved an inch in all the time Robin was speaking.

               ‘Are you suggesting,’ Slade said slowly, ‘that you leave the Titans, and stay with me instead?’

               Robin flushed, suddenly feeling like a pushy girlfriend, demanding keys to the apartment after only a few days.  ‘If that’s—I mean—if you think it’s a good idea?’  He held Slade’s stare for another second, remembered he wasn’t wearing his mask, and felt suddenly vulnerable without it.  As if he were missing body armour, rather than a flimsy piece of material.  ‘It’s a dumb idea,’ he said quickly.  ‘Forget it.’

               ‘Robin.’  Slade stretched out a hand, beckoning him closer.

               Clutching his leggings like a shield, Robin shuffled up to the bed.  Slade reached over, snatched them from his hand, and tossed them aside.  Then he grabbed Robin’s wrist—not tight, like when they used to fight, but a loose circle—and drew him across the bed.  Robin folded his legs, shimmying across the sheets until Slade had a hand on his jaw, the touch of his callouses warm and rough.

               ‘It’s an _excellent_ idea,’ he said.

               And then he pulled Robin in, and kissed him hard.  Robin fell back, his hand dropping behind him to keep his balance, and Slade leaned closer, his other hand sliding to the small of Robin’s back and drawing him in, pressing their bodies together.  Heat rushed down through Robin’s body and he let out a whimper, half surprise, half enjoyment, and broke the kiss with a gasp.

               ‘I have to go—my friends—’

               But Slade dragged Robin back.  ‘Your friends can stand for you to be a little late.’

 

* * *

 

Raven set her hand on Robin’s locked bedroom door.  The metal was cold under her palm, and she chewed her lip, glancing up and down the corridor as if he’d show up any moment.  Unlikely.  These days, Robin didn’t get back until past dawn.

               Guilt gnawed at her stomach.  When Robin broke into her room and stole her candles and _The Book of the Dead_ , she wanted to toss him off the top of the Tower.

               And now she was going to break into _his_ room.

               The hypocrisy stung, needling at the edge of her powers, aching to loose them.  Raven took a deep breath.  If there was one thing she was good at, it was keeping calm.  As she released her breath, she relaxed her iron grip on her powers, just enough to slip through the metal door.

               _I won’t touch anything._   She paced softly across the floor, allowing her magic to pulse against the walls, searching.  _If I can’t sense anything, I’ll just leave._

               But she _could_ sense something.  It was instant, like strong smell erupting from the oven when the door was opened.  It was black, and bitter, and felt like sandpaper scraping up Raven’s arms.  She shuddered, hairs rising on the back of her neck.

               It was that _thing_.

               Whatever Robin summoned when he tried to bring Jason back from the dead.  Its imprint was smeared on the walls, staining the bedsheets, coating everything like dust.  Raven swallowed, and realised she was breathing too fast.

               She slipped backwards through the door.

               For a moment, she just stood in the hallway, counting her breaths.  She sent a black bubble of her power expanding around her, growing as she inhaled, falling as she exhaled, over and over, a shield against that stench.

               Then she whipped round, and hammered on Beast Boy’s door.  He didn’t answer, and she knocked louder, with her whole fist, the way Beast Boy usually knocked on her door.  ‘Wake up!  Beast Boy, get up!’

               There was a long, loud groan somewhere behind the door, and then a thump and shuffling.  The door opened, and Beast Boy blinked miserably up at her, bundled in a fluffy dressing gown.  ‘Raven, what gives?  It’s like, stupid late right now.’

               ‘We need to wake up Cyborg,’ Raven said quickly.  ‘Before Robin gets back.’

               Beast Boy straightened as he followed her to Cyborg’s door, his brow creasing as he recognised the worry in her voice.  ‘Why, is Robin in trouble?’

               Raven banged on Cyborg’s door.  She hesitated a moment, her mouth dry.  _Stay calm.  Azerath.  Metrion.  Zinthos._   She let out a shaky breath, glancing at Beast Boy over her shoulder.  ‘Yes.  He’s in trouble.’

               Cyborg’s heavy footsteps echoed across his room.  He was yawning when he opened the door.

               ‘It’s about Robin,’ Raven said.

               Cyborg’s human eye widened.  He squared his shoulders, giving them a nod.  Without Robin around, he slipped into the role of de-facto leader.  ‘You better tell us.  Let’s go sit down.’

               Raven and Beast Boy followed him to the living room, Raven ducking quickly into her own room to grab a book from her bedside table— _DEMONIACO._   As they settled at the kitchen table, she laid the book in front of her, resting her hands either side of it.

               ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she murmured.  ‘Robin asked me not to.  But I think he’s in real trouble, and he doesn’t even know it.’  She hesitated, guilt bubbling up inside her again.  Breaking promises and spilling secrets.  If Robin did this to her, she’d never forgive him.  She shuddered, and looked up at Cyborg and Beast Boy.  ‘A few weeks ago, I caught Robin performing a séance.’

               Cyborg and Beast Boy sat back at the same time, their eyes widening identical expressions of horror.

               ‘But I thought you said that was, like totally spooky and not ever allowed, and that was why you threw away my Ouija board?’  Beast Boy said.

               ‘It is,’ Raven said.  ‘Robin was trying to bring back his brother—the other Robin, from Gotham City.’

               Cyborg leaned forward, rubbing his non-robotic temple with two metal fingers.  ‘Oh, man.’

               ‘Well, did he do it?’ Beast Boy said.  ‘Did it work?’

               ‘No.’  Opening _DEMONIACO_ , Raven flipped through the pages.  ‘Robin summoned something, but it wasn’t his brother.’  She reached the right page, and sighed.  The runes were tough to translate, unless you were a demon.  Or, she supposed grudgingly, _half_ demon.  Glancing up, Raven began to read, ‘ _… a lack of appetite, inability to sleep, seeking solitude, irrational behaviour even to the point of harming oneself, associating with unsavoury characters …_ ’

               ‘Raven, what’re you getting at?’ Cyborg said.  ‘I know Robin’s not been himself lately, but you gotta be fair to him.  He’s been through a lot.’

               Beside him, Beast Boy peered at the book, tilting his head like a puppy.  ‘I figured he was just sneaking out to meet some secret girlfriend.  Maybe Britney, since she never shows up to karaoke anymore.’

               Raven scowled.  ‘These are all the symptoms of demonic possession.’  She slid the book over, for all the difference it would make.  She’d given it to Robin, thinking he might slip up, and accidentally read it out in English.  But whatever he’d summoned was smarter than that.  ‘Robin won’t eat.  He can’t sleep, and he avoids us as much as he can.  He comes home at dawn covered in bruises.  When he fell over the other day?  He’d been shot in the leg.  Somebody patched him up, and he wouldn’t tell me who.  He knew I wouldn’t approve.’

               Cyborg and Beast Boy watched her, and now she could finally see the appropriate level of panic building in their expressions.

               ‘Robin’s not acting like himself because he’s _not Robin_ ,’ Raven said.  ‘He’s _possessed_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my beautiful editor, Mana! x


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's porn. It's just porn all the way today. Enjoy! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Robin hesitated for barely a second.  He had to get back to the Tower.  Back to his team.  Before they started to worry, or suspect, or worse—went looking for him.

               But Slade’s kiss was all wet heat and tongue and teeth.  And finally, Robin melted into it, gripping Slade’s shoulders tight.  The cold, empty feeling in his chest eased off, and his heart picked up speed, aching against his bruises.  Slade ran his hands down Robin’s ribs and up his back, squeezing at his ass and his thighs and anything he could reach, as if he wanted every inch of Robin under his palms.

               But he moved slower this morning, seeming to savour it all, his callouses rough but light against Robin’s bare skin.  When he palmed at Robin’s dick through the boxers, Robin groaned, breaking the kiss off again to rest his forehead on Slade’s shoulder.

               He sat with closed eyes for a moment, breathing softly, moaning when Slade pulled back the waistband of his boxers and wrapped his fingers around his cock.  He felt weightless.  Robin blinked, and slid his hand from Slade’s shoulder down his chest, suddenly wanting to touch as well, not really believing this was real.  Nothing that felt this good could be real.

               Trailing his hand further down Slade’s stomach, Robin closed his hand around Slade’s cock, and felt a thrill of pride when Slade tensed, and let out the softest breath of a sigh.  The sound sent a tingle down Robin’s spine, a shadow of the snarl Slade made last night when he came with Robin spread beneath him.  Robin wanted to hear it again.  To hear Slade make any sound, and to know that _he_ was drawing that sound out of him.

               Robin licked his lips.  He could—he _could—_

               Stomach buzzing with nerves, he drew back.  Slade made a sound of displeasure, until Robin lowered his head—and then Slade shifted back, resting on his elbows, one leg curled up and the other stretched out past Robin.  Robin pressed his lips together.  Suddenly, this seemed like a terrible idea.  Like something he was going to fuck up spectacularly.

               Slade curled his fingers around the base of his own cock.  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to back out now, Robin.’

               Robin shot him a filthy look.  Then he dropped his head, and closed his mouth around Slade’s dick.

               He tensed, expecting to be hit with stomach-turning bitterness, but he only tasted skin.  And besides, the way Slade shifted beneath him, the way he hissed between clenched teeth, would have been worth any bad taste.  Trying to remember how Slade had moved on him, Robin slid his lips slowly down until they touched Slade’s curled fingers, and then lifted back up.

               Slade made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a choke and a growl.  He slipped his hand off his cock and buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of Robin’s neck.  ‘Open your mouth wider,’ he murmured.  ‘Stick out your tongue.’

               Robin’s legs trembled, his dick throbbing at the sound of Slade’s voice.  But he opened his mouth until his jaw ached, letting his tongue slide down the underside of Slade’s cock.  Slade’s hand tightened in his hair, and drew him slowly down—not pulling, but guiding, letting Robin gradually find his way.  Slade’s dick brushed the back of his throat and Robin tensed.

               ‘Suck.’

               Robin closed his lips tight as he drew back, then opened again as Slade pushed him down.  Open wide.  Suck.  Open wide.  Suck.  Over and over, gradually faster.  As he drew up, Robin wriggled his tongue under Slade’s cock and Slade’s breath hitched.

               ‘That’s good, Robin.’  Slade drew out his name, low and rolling, and Robin couldn’t help the moan as blood pulsed in his own dick.  And that moan made Slade shift, so he did it again, pressing his tongue close and bowing his head, speeding up and up—

               He felt Slade’s dick growing harder against his lips, and pushed himself to sink lower, letting it brush the back of his throat for half a second before pulling rapidly back.  Robin flicked his eyes up to Slade.  He was watching, lips parted, breathing hard.  Robin lowered his head, wriggling his tongue again as he drew up, and Slade closed his eyes, tipping his head back.  Robin moved and moved, until he was going too fast to think about opening and closing his mouth anymore.  He just curled his lips over his teeth and bobbed his head, moaning, tongue lapping.

               Slade’s hand tightened in Robin’s hair, and Robin barely got a breath in before Slade’s hips snapped up.  Robin tightened his shoulders and squeezed his eyes shut, his skin burning hot as Slade held his head still and fucked his mouth.

               His jaw hurt and his neck ached and his shoulders were stiff.  Slade’s hand was too tight in his hair, and when he bucked up his cock slicked against the back of Robin’s throat and it took all his willpower not to choke.

               And Robin didn’t care.  His dick was straining against his boxers so hard it hurt, every tiny sound from deep in Slade’s throat making him want to groan right back.

               Slade began to make a noise and cut off halfway, and Robin shivered at the heat in his mouth as Slade came.  And then he shuddered, because the taste was worse than he’d expected, like an assault on the back of his tongue, all bitter liquorice and too much salt.  He sat up, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he swallowed it down.

               Opening his eyes, Robin blinked down at Slade … who was flushed and panting, sweat shining on his forehead.

_I did that._   Robin couldn’t help smirking.  _I got Slade out of breath._

               Slade’s eye flicked up to meet his, and he grabbed Robin’s arm and yanked him down into a long, rough kiss.  Slade didn’t seem to care about the taste still layered over Robin’s tongue; he lapped into his mouth, slow and still hungry.  He lay back and Robin climbed over him.  God, it felt so weird to be _on top of Slade_.  Not pinned underneath him.  Not clawing and screaming for freedom.

               To just feel … peaceful.

               Well.  Except—

               Slade’s hands grazed down Robin’s sides and rested on his hips, at the elastic of his boxers.  ‘Take these off.’

               Nodding numbly, Robin sat up.  He swung his leg over Slade’s and climbed off the bed.  He hooked his fingers into his boxers—and then glanced up at Slade.  The flash of a smirk tugged his lips at the look on Slade’s face.  Want.  _Slade wanted him._   Meeting Slade’s eye, Robin slowly drew his boxers down.

               Slade let out a soft growl.  He pushed himself up the bed, sitting against the headrest.  ‘You’re going to be death of me.’

               ‘Maybe that was the plan all along.’  Robin’s heart was going a hundred miles an hour, but he smiled and tried for a slow, soft voice as he climbed back onto Slade’s lap.  ‘Step one: get Slade in bed.  Step two: kill him with sex.  Step three …’  He shrugged.  ‘Profit?’

               Slade leaned in, lips moving against the column of Robin’s throat.  ‘If you kill me, I can’t fuck you.’

               ‘Damn,’ Robin muttered.  ‘Guess we’ll have to stick to step one—’  He cut off with a gasp as Slade closed his hand around his cock.  Then, as Slade nipped his throat, Robin let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine.

               ‘You _are_ noisy,’ Slade murmured.

               Flushing, Robin covered his mouth.  But Slade took his wrist and drew his hand back down.

               ‘No, Robin.  I want to hear you.’

               Robin whimpered, and Slade laughed softly, but he ignored it.  Because Slade’s hand on his cock felt too warm and too good to care about anything else.  Robin rocked into his palm, moaning and sighing shamelessly.  Partly because he just couldn’t help it, but also … partly just to please Slade.

               Slade’s other hand squeezed Robin’s thigh, and then his fingers crept back, tracing feather-light over Robin’s ass.  This time, Robin didn’t hesitate when Slade stopped to reach down the side of the bed for the bottle of lube.  His face burned as he watched Slade slick it over his fingers, and then he jumped at the first cold touch—

               And then he was bowed over, hands on the headboard, forehead on Slade’s shoulder, groaning as Slade pressed his fingers in, one at a time and slow.  Robin’s ass still ached from last night, but that just added to the pressure and it felt so damn good.  Slade moved and pushed and stretched in time with his gentle tugs on Robin’s cock.  And Robin was close, and getting closer, his thoughts a soft, perfect blur amounting to _don’t stop, don’t stop …_

               ‘Do you want more?’

               Robin blinked, lifting his head.  _More?  What more?_

               As if reading his thoughts, Slade slowed his hands and instead bucked his hips, letting his dick slide against Robin’s.

               His … completely hard dick.

               Robin’s mouth dropped open.  ‘What— _already_?’

               ‘Some of us have stamina.’

               ‘That’s not stamina.  That’s _inhuman_.’

               ‘Well?’  Smirking, Slade pressed his fingers deeper into Robin’s ass, making his arch his back and hiss.  ‘Do you want more?’

               Waves of heat rippling through him, Robin leaned close to brush a kiss against Slade’s jaw.  ‘Mmm.’

               ‘Say it.’

               ‘Yes,’ Robin mumbled, a fresh torrent of heat flooding to his face.

               Slade let out a single, dry laugh.  ‘You can say it better than that.’  But he slipped his fingers away regardless, reaching down the side of the bed for a condom.

               Robin gritted his teeth.  _OK, fine.  You want to embarrass me?_ He watched Slade rip the packet open and roll the condom on, slicking it over with more lube.  _Have it your way._   He pushed himself up, looked Slade dead in the eye, and said, ‘I want you to fuck me, _Master_.’

               He brought the last word out like a weapon, trying to slide it over his teeth the way Slade always let his own name roll off his tongue.  Slade stiffened, and for a moment Robin wondered if he’d actually _broken_ him, the way Slade stared.

               Then Slade’s mouth lifted into a sharp grin, and he grabbed Robin’s hips, jerking him forward to position him over his cock.  Leaning forwards, he drew Robin slowly down, and Robin hissed at the discomfort, worse this second time, and Slade murmured in his ear, _‘That’s my boy._ ’

               The breath left Robin’s lungs as if he’d taken a punch.  His legs trembled as he lowered all the way down, until he sat across Slade’s lap again.  He forced himself to breathe, although it was shaky, and tried to loosen all the muscles tightening in his abdomen.

               ‘That’s it.’  Slade ran a hand backwards through Robin’s hair, the other stroking up and down his back, surprisingly soft.  ‘That’s it, Robin, you know you can take it.’

               Robin shivered, but Slade was right.  He couldn’t just take it—he _liked_ it.  That filling, stretching sensation gradually went from uncomfortable to sensual.  And when Slade reached down to casually stroke at Robin’s dick, he gasped, rocking into the movement.  Which moved his ass around Slade’s dick, and Robin bit his lip, because it was that or scream the walls down.

               Slade set his hands on Robin’s hips and arched up, fucking him achingly slow.  His touch was light, his mouth soft on Robin’s throat, and Robin hadn’t even _fantasised_ about sex like this.  Like nothing needed to be hurried.  Like every warming, blurring, aching sensation needed to be felt and noticed and savoured.  Slade was panting, and Robin’s head was spinning from all the sharp, shallow breaths, interrupted with broken gasps and moans.  The pressure in his cock built and built, and he wrapped his own hand loosely around it, his fingers growing wet as he stroked and pulled, faster than Slade was moving, and faster still.

               The whole room blurred when he came.  Gasping, Robin bowed his head against Slade’s.  His arms were trembling.  He felt like he’d broken into pieces.  And somehow, that was a good thing.

               Robin gritted his teeth as Slade rocked up into him again and again, his dick throbbing with post-orgasm, the sensation in his ass suddenly uncomfortable again—too tight, too _much_.  But with a few more lazy strokes, Slade shuddered, letting out a low, short groan.  Then he sagged back against the headboard, his single eye closed.

               They were still for a moment, and Robin thought if he rolled off Slade’s lap, he could almost go straight back to sleep.  But then Slade looked up, and smiled thinly.

               ‘You made a mess.’  He traced a finger down the clear ropes of come on his chest.

               Robin went scarlet.  ‘Sorry—’

               But Slade lifted his wet finger, and pressed it to Robin’s lips.  ‘Open.’

               Robin hesitated, then parted his lips, allowing Slade to press his finger in.  That sharp, bitter taste hit him again, and Robin ignored it, closing his lips and running his tongue along Slade’s finger.  Slade drew his hand back, and Robin swallowed … and saw the dark, hooded look in Slade’s eye … and slowly, deliberately licked his lips.

               Slade shuddered, brushing his thumb over Robin’s lower lip.  He whispered something, so low and quiet Robin didn’t catch it.

               Then he straightened, pushing Robin gently from his lap.  ‘Shower,’ he murmured, ‘and go to the Tower.  If you’re not back here tonight, I’ll assume they’ve tried to stop you.  And I’ll come and _take_ you.’

               Goose bumps prickled on Robin’s bare arms.  ‘They won’t stop me.’

               Slade’s eye narrowed, but he didn’t say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to plot stuff next time, honest!
> 
> Thanks to my lovely editor Mana, whom you may all thank for that filthy blowjob scene. x


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update before 11:00PM? MADNESS.

Robin touched his mask as the elevator sailed up the Tower.  Was it skewiff?  Was it peeling at the edges?  If the Titans realized he’d taken it off …

               He drew a long, deep breath.  They didn’t know about Slade.

               They didn’t know.

               The elevator doors slid open, and Robin stepped into the living room.

               Raven sat on the sofa, sipping tea with a book in her lap.  Beast Boy perched on the kitchen counter, tapping away at his communicator, and Cyborg was fiddling with a circuit board on the other end of the sofa.  A normal morning.

               But the moment Robin stepped in, their eyes all snapped up at once.

               Robin glanced between them, chills trickling down his spine.  ‘Hi?’

               ‘You’re late back.’  Raven closed her book slowly.  Beside her, Cyborg stood, setting his circuit board down.

               ‘Yeah.’  Robin edged towards the corridor—towards his room.  ‘I was working on a case.’

               Cyborg moved round him, trying to look casual but moving too quickly.  Robin glanced back, just as Cyborg rested his hand on the panel by the elevator door.  With a soft hiss and a series of clicks, Cyborg’s robotic fingers came apart, wires sneaking into the panel and connecting to some unseen port.  As Robin turned back to Raven, he heard the heavy thunk of the elevator door locking down.

               _If they try to stop you …_

               Robin swallowed.  These were his friends.  He trusted them.  Even if they were staring at him right now like he was aiming a gun at their heads.

               _Or like …_

               Sparks tingled at the base of his skull as Beast Boy slipped off the kitchen counter and walked to the corridor, blocking the exit.  Beast Boy’s communicator beeped on his belt, but he didn’t seem to hear it, his eyes fixed on Robin.

               _… Like they know._

               Robin’s fingers strayed to his belt.  But he lowered his hand.  _Don’t be ridiculous._ ‘Guys, what’s going on?’

               ‘Just—come sit down,’ Raven said softly.

               Beast Boy’s communicator pinged again, and again he left it untouched.

               ‘I think your fangirls are trying to talk to you,’ Robin said.

               ‘They can wait a minute.’  Beast Boy’s voice was strained.

               Every nerve in Robin’s body screamed at him to run.  _But they’re my friends._   His heart pounded as he moved to the sofa, sitting beside Raven.  _It’s nothing,_ he told himself. _Just some dumb intervention._   He let out a breath.  Of course.  They’d tell him he was working too hard, and he’d argue—just enough to make it look believable—and then he’d admit he needed time off.

               And then he’d pack his bag, and go find Slade.

               Raven stared at him, tense as a bowstring.  He trusted Raven.  Raven was practically his sister, the way Jason was his brother.

               And yet, he sat out of arm’s reach.

               Raven slipped her book off her lap, pushing it towards Robin.  It was the black tome she’d showed him before— _DEMONIACO_.

               ‘This again?’  Robin traced the cover.  ‘I told you, I can’t read it.’

               ‘I think you can,’ Raven said quietly.  ‘But you don’t want to admit it.’

               Robin frowned.  ‘What?’  He looked up at Cyborg and Beast Boy, but they hung back.  Guarding the exits.  Robin’s heart leapt into his throat.  What the hell kind of intervention was this?  He turned back to Raven.  ‘Raven, what’s this about?  You’re freaking me out.’

               ‘Robin—’ Raven’s voice seemed to catch in her throat, and Robin’s breath hitched.

               _They know, they know, they know, THEY KNOW._

               They’d throw him out the Tower.  They’d tell Bruce.  They’d tell _Starfire._

               Robin was going to be sick.

               ‘Robin, you’re in danger,’ Raven said.  ‘You’re possessed.’

               The growing roar of blood in Robin’s ears went suddenly silent.  The room went so still, it seemed to have frozen like a paused video.  Robin stared, and Raven stared back, tense, like she was prepared to bolt any second.

               Beast Boy’s communicator beeped, and Robin jolted to reality.

               ‘ _What?_ ’

               ‘You’re possessed,’ Raven said again, firmer this time.  ‘That—that time you tried to bring Jason back, in your room—’

               Robin’s gaze flicked up to Cyborg and Beast Boy, his heart thumping against his bruised chest.  ‘You told them?’

               Raven hunched her shoulders, her voice small.  ‘I’m sorry.’

               ‘You promised.’ Robin stood, although the adrenaline racing through him was chased away with a flood of relief.  They didn’t know about Slade.  They didn’t know _anything_.

               ‘Don’t you get it, man?’ Cyborg said.  ‘Raven had to tell us.  You’re in danger.  This demon thing in your head, whatever it is, it’s got you messed up.’

               Robin laughed.  ‘There’s no demon in my head.’

               ‘Then where are you sneaking out at night?’ Beast Boy said.  ‘What’re you doing?’

               ‘I told you, I’m working on a case.’  Impatience crept into Robin’s voice.  This was insane.

               ‘What case?’ Cyborg said.

               ‘I—it’s—it doesn’t matter!’  Robin looked down at Raven pleadingly.  ‘Raven, I’m not possessed!’

               She stared up at him with wide, worried eyes.  And god, it hurt to see her look like that—in pain, because of him.  ‘You can’t even tell the demon’s there.  But it keeps you awake at night—’

               _He didn’t know why he’d expected to sleep … his brain just didn’t know how to switch off …_

               ‘—makes you violent—’

               _Fingers around the man’s throat, tightening as his face turned blue …_

               ‘—makes you do things you’d never normally do—’

               _I want you to fuck me … Master …_

               ‘Stop it!’  Robin backed up, heart in his throat.  ‘This is crazy!  I’m not possessed.  I’m just—’  He cut off as Beast Boy’s communicator pinged again, whirling on him.  ‘Will you shut that thing up!’

               He realised what he’d done a moment too late.  Cold swept down Robin’s spine.  He took a tiny step back, standing taller, swallowing.

               ‘BB,’ he croaked.  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’

               ‘It’s OK.’  Beast Boy’s voice was tight as he flipped open his communicator.  ‘It’s not your fault.’

               Robin ground his teeth, wanting to scream, _There is no demon in my head!_   But losing his temper again wouldn’t help.  So he took deep breaths, hands clenching and loosing at his sides, as Beast Boy glanced over his communicator.

               And furrowed his brow.

               Robin watched, his stomach slowly tightening as Beast Boy’s expression changed.  His eyes widened.  His brow raised, his jaw dropping open—and then he let out a squeak of horror.

               ‘Britney’s dead.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Mana, my lovely editor! x


	18. Chapter 18

Robin grew cold.  ‘What?’

               ‘Britney,’ Beast Boy croaked, eyes still fixed on his communicator, scrolling through messages.  ‘My friend from karaoke—’  His thumb froze over the communicator buttons, and his expression suddenly darkened.  His eyes snapped up to Robin.  ‘Did you know about this?’

               Robin couldn’t speak.  _No, no, no._

               ‘Know about what?’  Cyborg shifted, as if longing to step away from the elevator and look at Beast Boy’s communicator.  But his eyes flicked back to Robin, and he stayed put.

               ‘The group chat’s going crazy,’ Beast Boy said hoarsely.  ‘The cops found Britney like an hour ago, down some alley.  She’s been murdered.  And—she’s dressed up like _Robin_.’

               The floor fell out of Robin’s world.

               All last night, he’d been sleeping—been _fucking_ —while an innocent girl was murdered.  Because of him.  Not even a stranger this time, but one of Beast Boy’s friends.  A girl who liked Robin, who looked up to him, even though she’d never met him.

               Madame Zara’s screams echoed in his mind, and his knees folded.

               Nobody caught him.  Robin staggered, catching the edge of the sofa.  Across the room, Cyborg lunged at Beast Boy’s communicator, snatching it from his hands and ignoring Beast Boy’s squawk of protest.

               At Robin’s side, Raven was utterly still.  Her eyes burned on him.

               Robin watched Cyborg click through the messages.  He couldn’t feel his legs.  He couldn’t feel anything.  Nothing at all, except the queasy, rolling sickness of guilt.

               Cyborg raised his eyes—one real, one mechanical—and turned the screen around.

               It was a picture from the crime scene.  Not a police photo, but a snapshot from someone’s camera phone, blurry as if they’d had to zoom in from far away.  Robin didn’t recognise the girl lying out on the pavement, but he did recognise the cheap costume.  It looked like her hair had been hacked off, shorter on one side than the other, in an effort to make her resemble Robin.

               ‘Robin, man.’  Cyborg’s voice was pleading.  ‘Tell me you didn’t do this.’

               He might as well have hit Robin with a brick.  Robin wanted to shout— _What the hell?  No!_ —but instead he wretched.  He slapped his palm to his mouth, pressing his lips together, and forced himself to swallow.  Finally, he raised his head.  ‘You think I killed her?’  His voice was barely more than a croak.  ‘Why—how could think that of me?’

               ‘The demon makes you do things,’ Raven whispered.  ‘Things you’d never normally do.’

               The blood drained from Robin’s face.  He swayed on the spot.  ‘No.  I didn’t kill her.  It’s not like that.’

               And then, his own communicator beeped.

               He reached for it, but Raven was faster, snatching it off his belt.  She melted into shadow, slipping backwards.

               Robin yelped, lunging after her.  ‘Raven, no!  Give it back!’

               But she floated up out of his reach, flipping the communicator open.  ‘Case notes from Jump PD,’ she said.  ‘For Britney Evans.’

               ‘I didn’t kill her!’ Robin cried.  ‘I was working the case!  She’s not the first victim—’

               Cyborg straightened, his face like a storm.  ‘And you didn’t tell us?’

               ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’  Robin looked back up at Raven, his arm outstretched.  ‘Please, give it back.’

               Raven’s expression was softening.  She believed him.  At least believed he wasn’t a murderer.  But he couldn’t let her read the case notes.  He couldn’t let her see what was bound to be underneath that uniform.  He couldn’t let her see the scar—

               Raven hissed, looking up from the communicator.  ‘Slade.’

               Robin leaped onto the sofa and launched himself into the air.  He slammed bodily into Raven and she yelped—but not as loud as Robin, when she threw up her arm on instinct, jamming her elbow into his bruised chest.

               He cried out, a hoarse, half-choked sound, but still managed to snatch the communicator from her.  Landing on his feet, he staggered, his hand pressed to his chest.  Every breath felt like a spear digging deeper into his sternum.

               ‘Robin—’  Raven set down gently in front of him, but Robin moved back, bringing his hand up to stop her.  He glanced down at the communicator.

               A close-up photo of Britney Evan’s bare chest showed the burns and the bruising, and that sharp, curving S scarred into her skin.  A flash of pain shot through Robin’s stomach, and he closed the communicator with a snap.

               He didn’t want to see any more.  No more kids laid out naked on a slab because of him.

               ‘Slade killed her?’  Beast Boy sounded like he could barely speak.

               ‘No,’ Robin said, but Cyborg spoke over him.

               ‘Slade?  Robin, I thought you were _over_ this whole “hunt Slade on your own” obsession.’

               ‘I am over it!’ Robin snapped.  ‘I’m not hunting Slade!  Slade didn’t kill her!’

               The room was silent, and their glances sent cold trickling down his spine.

               Raven took a tiny step toward him.  Her expression was closing up again.  ‘But that’s his symbol …’

               ‘I know.’  Robin’s heart was going too fast, and his mind was going too slow.  ‘I—look—I don’t—’  He couldn’t tell them everything, but he had to tell them _something_.  He just wanted to lie down.  He wanted to lie down in Slade’s bed, where everything was somehow quiet.  Where he could sleep without worrying.  ‘Why would Slade even want to kill her?’ he burst out.

               Slade had made so much sense when he told Robin why he obviously wasn’t the killer.  What was it he said?  Robin couldn’t remember.

               ‘Slade doesn’t do things like this,’ he said lamely.

               ‘Like what he did to Terra?’ Beast Boy said sharply.

               Robin winced.  ‘No—BB, that’s not what I—’

               ‘Or like when he made a deal with my father?’ Raven said.

               ‘No!’  Robin’s hand crept into his hair, tugging in frustration.  ‘That’s not what I mean!’

               ‘Listen to yourself!’ Cyborg threw his arms up.  ‘You’re _defending_ Slade.’

               ‘I’m just saying he didn’t do _these murders!_ ’  The room felt so small.  Robin had the window behind him.  He had explosives in his belt.  There was one way out, if he had to take it.  His hand crept to his waist.  ‘Look, we’ve been investigating and—’

               ‘We?’ Cyborg cut in, and Robin wanted to scream.

               _Why won’t they let me finish?  Why won’t they let me explain?_

               ‘Who’s “we”?’ Cyborg stepped closer—Beast Boy and Raven, too, all them closing slowly around him.  Cyborg’s human eye widened, and his robotic eye blazed.  ‘Dude, you’re not— _working with Slade?_ ’

               They hadn’t stopped moving, but suddenly the room felt very still.  Robin could feel his heart thumping in his throat, the roar of blood in his ears like the rush of the tide.  They wouldn’t understand.  They wouldn’t possibly understand.  It was right there, on their faces.  The flesh-and-blood half of Cyborg’s face creasing in anger.  Beast Boy’s mouth curling in a grimace.  Raven’s wide, hopeless, pitying eyes.

               He wasn’t possessed.  They didn’t care.

               Slade wasn’t the killer.  They wouldn’t listen.

               They were friends.  And he couldn’t trust them.

               _The window, then._

               He closed his fingers around the small, round shape of his explosives, and brought his hand up—

               Raven snapped her own arm up, encasing Robin’s hand in a black sphere of magic.

               Her eyes widened as she took in the explosive, and Robin cursed.

               She didn’t know he’d meant to hit the window.

               ‘Raven, let me go.’  He reached for his I-Am-Team-Leader voice, but every word shook.

               Her teeth were gritted.  ‘No.’

               Robin strained, but his hand wouldn’t budge, locked in a fist over his head.  ‘Raven—’

               Beast Boy lunged, a green blur as he changed into his hulking gorilla form.  His arms stretched out to grab Robin, his teeth bared.  With a snarl, Robin hauled up on his trapped arm, lifting himself high enough to kick out.  He aimed for Beast Boy’s chest, but Beast Boy ducked—and instead Robin cracked his boot into the side of Beast Boy’s head.

               Beast Boy slumped.

               Hissing a gasp, Robin edged back as far as his trapped arm allowed.  ‘Get back!  Get away from me!’

               ‘Robin, we don’t want to hurt you,’ Raven said softly.

               ‘I don’t wanna hurt you either!’ Robin cried.  ‘Let me go!’

               But Raven’s dark eyes were on Beast Boy as Cyborg stepped in and pulled him up.

               ‘Raven, do it,’ Cyborg said.  ‘Exorcise him, now!’

               ‘Let me go!’  Robin’s heart was thundering like a train, his stomach flipping and twisting like he was about to be sick.  He wrenched at his arm, his shoulder screaming in protest, feeling like those animals who gnawed their legs off to escape a bear trap.  ‘I’m not possessed, let me go!’

               ‘It won’t hurt,’ Raven said.  ‘I promise.’

               And the bubble expanded.

               It flooded down his arm like cold water.  It spread across his bruised and aching chest, pooled over his stomach, flowed down his limbs.  And then it swept up, closing over his face.

               He couldn’t move.  Raven stepped in front of him, lifting her hood to hide her knitted brow.  She opened the _DEMONIACO_.

               _I’m not possessed!_ he screamed it in his mind, begging her to look, to hear what the others couldn’t.  _Listen to me!  Let me go!_

               Because it felt _wrong_.  Like cold hands clamping down over his whole body, pinning him in place.  And Raven’s hood didn’t cover her worried frown as she opened the book, flicking through the pages.

               Her voice was muffled through the wall of magic.  But Robin recognised the language, spoken aloud.  The same language he’d studied, and practised, and learned by rote.  The language that was meant to save Jason.

               Floods of cold swept over him, each more bitter than the last, until his skin burned.  And then the cold got _under_ his skin, pushing through muscle and organ, clawing into his bones.  Robin wished he could scream.  Raven was wrong.  It hurt.  It hurt so bad he wanted to die.

               Raven’s eyes went white, burning from the shadows of her hood.

               And then, as if the cold had carved a path for it, Raven’s black magic dug into Robin’s body.

               It was worse than pain.  It was every gnawing sensation of guilt at every worried glance, every blurry head after every sleepless night, every gut clench at every unappetising bite of unwanted food.  It was as if Raven was tearing through parts of him that weren’t even _parts_ , shredding up everything she could find like a thief tearing through a victim’s belongings in search of gold.  He barely had a moment to feel the spark of fear that any second, she would find Slade, before she did.

               It was the glad-to-be-alive adrenaline rush of fighting through Anna Petrov’s men together.  The sharp pain of the bullet through his leg, and the rush of warmth at Slade’s touch he stuck the bandage down.  The teeth-clenching rage of wanting to kill, and the guilt of having wanted to kill, and the relief that Slade stopped him.  The heat and the gasping and the clutching at sheets—

 _Stop._   Robin pushed at her claws in his mind.  _Stop, Raven, please—_

               She withdrew.

               It felt like having a spear dragged out of his heart.  Even as the bubble shrank, and Robin felt warm air on his skin, the cold stayed lodged in his bones.  And the moment the bubble was gone, his legs buckled and he hit the floor.

               ‘Did it work?’ Beast Boy squeaked, and Robin vaguely saw his feet skittering away, but everything was a blur.

               ‘N-no,’ Raven murmured.  ‘I don’t—I couldn’t find anything—’

               Robin licked his lips, opening his mouth to say, _Don’t tell them, please don’t tell them_ , but next thing the room went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely editor, Mana, who enjoys torturing Robin almost as much as I do. >:)


	19. Chapter 19

He woke up in bed, and for a moment he thought he was back in Slade’s safehouse.  He stretched his arms out, smoothing his gloved hands over the sheets …

               _Gloves?_

               And the room didn’t smell right.  Slade’s bed smelled of sweat and sex, and this place smelled woody, almost bitter.

_The exorcism_.

               Robin jerked upright, sharp pain digging into his chest.  He pressed both hands against it, gasping.  It felt like a great, bloody hole, carved right through to his heart.  But there was nothing.  Just bruises—bruises from that shooter’s bullet—aching under his palms.

               Something moved across the room.

               ‘Robin?’  It was Raven, floating by the door.  She uncrossed her legs, setting her feet down.  Her hood was up, her eyes glowing out from its shadows.

               Robin scrambled back.  ‘Don’t touch me!’

               She stepped closer, reaching across the bed.  ‘Robin, it’s me.’

_Cold claws, digging under his skin, and he couldn’t breathe—_

               ‘DON’T TOUCH ME!’

               Raven faltered.  She slipped her hood down over her shoulders, her eyes fading from white to purple.  Then, staring at Robin, she stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself.

               Robin took a long, slow breath, wincing at both the pulse in his head and the sharp, digging pain of the bruises in his chest.  He was in his bedroom.  Someone, probably Cyborg, must’ve carried him to his bed.  But the place stank.  He glanced around.  _There._   Incense burned on his bookshelf.

               The exorcism was over.  He was OK.

               Robin slumped against the headboard, dropping his head in his hands.

               Raven lingered at the end of the bed.  ‘Robin … ?’

               ‘You lied.’  Robin looked up.  ‘That exorcism hurt.’

               ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.  ‘I shouldn’t have—’

               ‘No, you shouldn’t.’  Robin glared.  It hurt just to look at her, and not only because of the way she still stared him, anxious, like he was about to explode.  But because she _hurt_ him.  Of everyone in the team, he’d thought he could trust Raven the best.

               He was wrong.

               Raven perched on the edge of the bed, her head low.  ‘It didn’t even work.  The exorcism should’ve cleansed any foreign entity out of your body but … I must’ve done it wrong.’

               ‘Or,’ Robin said through gritted teeth, ‘I’m _not possessed_.’

               She looked up, her eyes huge and almost scared, her lips pressed together.  His head pounded, and every breath of incense dug deeper into his skull.

               ‘Can’t we put that thing out?’  He waved at the incense burner.

               Raven’s eyes narrowed.  ‘It’s purifying the room.  The spirit you summoned left … traces of itself in here.’  She swallowed.  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the killer?  We looked at the case files and he was threatening you—taunting you about Jason.  You could have trusted us.’

               Robin flinched at Jason’s name.  ‘Doesn’t look like I could have, actually.’  He’d tried to explain.  He tried to tell them the truth, and they wouldn’t listen.  His heart sped up, remembering the _other_ time they hadn’t believed him.  When they’d tied him to a table, and forced him to face his hallucinations alone … Slade looming over him with a knife, sparks flashing over the metal surface.

               Except that wasn’t really Slade.

               And the _real_ Slade wasn’t his enemy anymore.

               ‘You cornered me,’ Robin growled.  ‘You accused me of _murder_.’

               ‘We’re worried about you!’ Raven cried.  ‘You don’t eat or sleep and—and you’re working with _Slade_ , Robin!  After everything he’s done!’

               ‘At least I can _trust_ Slade!’ Robin snarled.

               Raven recoiled, her lip curling.  For a moment, she stared her eyes wide and disbelieving.  Then her expression soothed.  She took a slow breath, and spoke quietly, ‘No, Robin.  You can trust _us._   We’re here for you—’

               ‘Bullshit!’  Robin’s chest rose and fell rapidly, spikes of pain tearing through his bruises.  ‘You don’t listen to a word I say!’

               ‘Robin—’

               ‘You attacked me!  You betrayed me!’

               Raven drew tall, her eyes tightening.  ‘And Slade wouldn’t?’

               Clenching his fists, Robin drew up his knees.  _He could.  He’s seen your face._ But what did Raven know?  What right did she have to lecture him, after what she’d done?  Robin swallowed, forcing the panic down.  ‘I know what Slade is.’  He narrowed his eyes.  ‘And now I know what you are.’

               Raven paled.  Her lips thinned, and for a moment Robin thought she was furious, before he realised she was close to tears.  She turned away, taking a breath, and Robin could almost hear her chanting in her head, bringing her emotions back down.  ‘I knew you might not forgive me,’ she said softly.  ‘But you don’t have to.  Because I care about you, and I want to make this right.  I want to help.’

               Swallowing down a lump in his throat, Robin let out a slow breath and leaned back against the headboard.  Raven lifted her hand, hesitated, and then laid it on his shoulder.  It was an awkward touch, unsteady.  Raven was no good at this.  Starfire would’ve dragged him into a hug.

               Robin shuddered, feeling again those cold claws, tearing through his mind.  ‘Those—’ he croaked, and swallowed, started again.  ‘Those things you saw in my head—’

               ‘I didn’t see anything,’ Raven said quickly.

               Robin shot her a withering look.

               Raven held up her hands defensively.  ‘I felt some—’ her cheeks went pink, ‘— _emotions_ , but that’s all.’  She lowered her hands.  ‘What happened between you and Starfire … it’s not my business.’

               For a moment, Robin could only stare.  It felt like colour flooding into a black-and-white world.  Raven hadn’t seen Slade.  She hadn’t _seen_ anything.  The bedsheets and the dizziness and the ecstasy … she thought it was some old memory of Starfire.

               He lowered his legs, head spinning with relief.  Or maybe that was the incense.  And then he hissed—as a sharp lance of pain shot through his chest.

               ‘Robin?’ Raven caught his shoulder as he bent over.  ‘What’s wrong?’

               ‘I’m fine.’  He pushed himself up again.  ‘I got shot again.’

               Her mouth fell open.  ‘In the _chest_?’

               ‘I was wearing body armour.’

               ‘And you didn’t tell anybody?’  Raven lurched closer.

               ‘You didn’t really give me a chance.’

               Raven buried her face in her hands, and let out a low, awful sound like a barely-restrained scream.  For a moment she was still, taking long, slow breaths, meditating again.  Then she lowered her hands, her face a mask of calm.  ‘Will you let me heal you?’

               Cold sweat broke over Robin’s skin.  ‘It’s just a bruise.’

               ‘You could be bleeding internally.

               ‘I’m not bleeding internally.’

               Raven brow knitted, and she let out a soft breath.  ‘I won’t hurt you, Robin.  I promise.’

               ‘I’ve heard that before.’  But Robin glanced over her, and it was so, painfully obvious how much she wanted to help.  To make it up to him.  He took a long breath, digging for that faith he’d always had in Raven.  He shifted warily closer.  ‘Fine.  Go on.’

               She sat on the bed, cross-legged.  He couldn’t help flinching when she set her hands on his chest.  Her touch was light, but the bruises _hurt_.  And besides … he really couldn’t scrub the pain of that exorcism away.  The way it felt like her digging under his skin.

               ‘You’re lucky,’ Raven murmured, as the coolness of her healing spread over his chest, soothing away the pain.  ‘You’re not bleeding internally.’

               Robin forced a faint smile.  ‘Told you.’

               She rolled her eyes, and lowered her hands.  ‘Better?’

               Rolling his shoulder, Robin pressed a hand against his chest.  ‘Thanks.’  It still ached, deep down, but it was better.  And Raven hadn’t hurt him again.  ‘So … maybe we should go over the case files from Jump PD together?  If BB knew the victim, we could get another angle, and …’

               _And I want to trust you again._

               He didn’t say it, but stared up at her hopefully.

               Raven hesitated, then said softly, ‘That’s not a good idea right now.  You should rest.’

               ‘I don’t need rest.  I need to find the killer.’

               ‘For now, we’ve got to concentrate on you.  You’re not yourself.  You haven’t been for a long time.’

               A tingle crept down Robin’s spine.  ‘Raven …’  He forced himself to take a breath, to plough forward.  ‘Jason … _died_.  You know you can’t just make that better, right?’

               Rising smoothly off the bed, Raven drew her hood up.  ‘Of course I know that, Robin.’  Her voice hardened.  ‘I’m going to do some reading, and we can exorcise you properly this time.’

               Robin couldn’t move.  It was like he was already trapped in that bubble of her magic all over again, his breath short, his heart pounding against his ribs.

               ‘The incense will help,’ Raven said.  ‘Try and get some sleep, OK?’

               ‘No.’  Robin fumbled to get to his feet as she glided to the door.  ‘Raven, no, wait—’

               But with a last, apologetic glance, she slipped through the closed door.

               Robin slammed into it, slapping his palm on the open button.  The door didn’t move.  ‘Come back!’  He thumped his fists on the door.  ‘Raven, come back!  I’m not possessed!  _Raven!_ ’  He let out a furious, terrified scream, beating at the door again and again.  She couldn’t do this.  She couldn’t torture him again.  He gasped, and couldn’t get enough air.  ‘RAVEN!’  His heart was in his throat, choking him.  She was going to tear him apart.  She was going to _kill him_.

               He kicked at the door, leaving a great black scuff up the metal.  But it didn’t budge.  Hell, the doors here were meant to withstand Cyborg’s laser canon.

               Robin threw himself hopelessly against the door, letting the slam ring out.  ‘RAVEN!’  He braced his shoulder, and slammed into it again.  ‘CYBORG!  BEAST BOY!’  His voice cracked.  His vision was blurring with panicked tears.  Heart pounding, Robin reached for his belt.  He still had the explosives.  He would blast his way out if he had to.

               His hand came down on nothing.

               Too late, he realised his shirt hung loose over his leggings.  They’d taken his utility belt.  All his tools and weapons, his bo staff.  Even his communicator.

               ‘NO!’  Robin kicked at the door, again and again.  His voice was raw.  ‘LET ME OUT!  RAVEN, LET ME OUT!’  He drew back again, and threw himself once more at the door.

               His head slammed against the metal.

               Vision crackling, Robin slumped.

               He leaned against the door, head spinning.  He took a long breath, and choked on the acrid smell of Raven’s incense.

               He could imagine Slade crouching over him, hands rough on his shoulders.  _‘What are you doing, Robin?  This is pathetic.’_

               ‘Trapped,’ Robin mumbled, closing his eyes.

               _‘You’re a smart boy, Robin.’_   The Slade in his imagination shook him, hands tight, face close enough Robin might’ve felt his breath.  _‘Figure something out.’_

               Robin’s pulse slowed.  He took another slow breath, pushing himself to his feet.

               He couldn’t trust the Titans.

               But he had Slade.

               Robin glanced at the window—bulletproof glass, undoubtedly locked down as securely as the door.  It was still light outside, maybe early afternoon.  He must’ve been out of it all morning.  He had four, maybe five hours.  Slade would come for him at nightfall.  And Robin would make sure the gates were wide open.

               Robin straightened.  He’d get out.

               And he wouldn’t come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to my editor Mana today, who worked super hard to get that argument between Robin and Raven juuuust right (isn't she good at ripping your heart out?) Thank you, lovely! x
> 
> And thanks also to my commenters, new and old. Your messages are both heartwarming and hilarious, and you really inspire me to keep writing! So THANK YOU! <3


	20. Chapter 20

They’d taken his utility belt, but the Titan’s must’ve forgotten Robin was raised by the world’s greatest paranoid bastard.

               Bruce had caches in every room of Wayne Manor, activated by the lightest touch of his fingerprint under the billiards table, or the inside of a lampshade, or behind a specific book on the hundreds of shelves in the library.  Grappling guns, batarangs, knuckle dusters … Bruce could reach a decent selection from anywhere in the house.

               Robin had one cache of his own at Wayne Manor—in his bedroom, under the wardrobe.

               In his bedroom at Titan’s Tower, he had four.

               Uncurling his legs, Robin pushed himself up off the floor and clambered on the bed.  He slipped off his glove, stretching up to touch the ceiling.  Cyborg helped him put this one in—a fingerprint scanner, just like back at home.  With a soft beep, a panel in the ceiling slid open.

               Empty.

               Robin cursed.  Of course.  Cyborg must’ve emptied it before they locked him up in here.

               He didn’t hold out much hope for the next two caches, but still he jumped off the bed and reached underneath it.  His fingers scraped a wooden box—a gift from Beast Boy—and he hooked it out.  It was locked with voice control, part of a spy kit Beast Boy found in a joke shop years ago.  Robin didn’t need to say the password— _‘Beast Boy is the greatest,’_ —to know he had no chance.  The lid was already open, swinging on its hinge.

               So he shoved it back under the bed and turned instead to his bookshelf.  Slipping a book off the bottom shelf, he opened to page 38 and set his bare palm against the paper.  He took a breath.

               ‘Azerath.  Metrion.  Zinthos.’

               His hand slipped down through the paper—through the black portal now swirling in the middle of the book.  His stomach tightened at the touch of Raven’s magic, but he shook it off.  Raven had set up the spell years ago to react to his touch and his voice.  But through the portal, he felt nothing but empty air.

               Ripping his hand out, he snapped the book shut as the portal closed, and slipped it back into place.

               Three down.  He imagined his friends faces as they each pulled out their caches, one at a time—as they realised he’d been paranoid enough to get one from each of them.  Just in case one of them stabbed him in the back.

               _Or all of them._

               Sitting on the edge of his bed, Robin reached for his bedside table.  Had they guessed there was one more cache—one they didn’t know about?  Opening his top drawer, Robin emptied out the miscellaneous pens, rubber bands and screwdrivers, and rapped his knuckles on the bottom.  It rang hollow.

               ‘Grishnik,’ he murmured.

               The false bottom jumped open.

               Robin smiled thinly.  _Thanks, Star._

               It was full to bursting.  He dug out a handful of red birderangs, smoke pellets, a weighted throwing rope, twin fighting batons, a Swiss army knife …

               Beneath the weapons were bandages, alcohol wipes, antiseptic and aspirin.  Robin grabbed the aspirin and swallowed two dry.  Between the incense and the bang against the door, his head was pounding.

               Getting up, he dug in his wardrobe for an old rucksack.  He tipped the miniature first aid kit inside, and the Swiss army knife, along with socks and pants, hair gel, razor, toothbrush …

               Zipping the bag up, Robin tucked the smoke pellets down his gloves, and slung the weighted rope over his shoulder.  He twirled the batons experimentally.  It was a wrench to lose his bo staff; the batons’ reach was so much shorter.  He made a low jab in the air, where he imagined someone’s kidney would be, then snapped his other arm up to take out his enemy’s jaw.

               He glanced out the window.  It was late afternoon, judging by the light.

               He was ready.

 

* * *

 

Late afternoon shadows were spreading through the living room when Robin’s communicator rang.

               Raven jerked up off the sofa.  For a moment, she floated over the cushions, cloak dangling, _DEMONIACO_ still in her hands.  Over on the table, Robin’s communicator beeped again, loud and insistent.

               Sitting at the table, Cyborg looked up from the wires he was tinkering with in his arm, his face grey.  He was in arm’s reach, but instead he leaned back, as if the communicator might bite him.

               With a squawk, Beast Boy dropped the book Raven had given him to plod through—he read slowly, but the distraction kept him quiet—and changed with a blur into a small, dark-faced monkey.  He leaped up onto Raven’s shoulder.  She winced as his sharp little feet dug in, but didn’t brush him off.

               ‘Who is it?’ Raven said.

               She didn’t need to ask.  It was Slade.  She _knew_ it was Slade.

               Cyborg reached tentatively for the communicator.  Raven tensed, waiting.

               But Cyborg’s mouth dropped open.  ‘Guys.’  He looked up.  ‘It’s _Batman._ ’

               Raven let out a breath.  _Not Slade._

               Beast Boy hopped off Raven’s shoulder, transforming back into a human even before his feet hit the floor.  ‘ _The_ Batman?’  He snatched the still-beeping communicator out of Cyborg’s loose grip, and squeaked.  ‘Oh my god, it’s totally Batman.’

               Raven arched an eyebrow.  ‘Are you going to answer it?’

               ‘We just locked his precious boy wonder up in his room,’ Cyborg said.  ‘ _You_ answer it.’

               ‘He’s gonna kill us,’ Beast Boy whimpered.  ‘He’s totally gonna swoop in here and kung fu us to death.’

               Scowling, Raven took the communicator from him—she had to give credit to Batman’s patience for letting it ring out this long—and flipped it open.

               She’d only met Batman in person once, but the black cowl and thin-lipped frown on the small screen were instantly familiar.

               ‘Ro—’  He stopped, presumably as Raven’s image appeared on his own screen.  ‘Raven?’

               She touched the edge of her hood, but resisted the urge to flip it up and hide her face.  ‘Yes.’

               ‘Where’s Robin?’

               Raven glanced at Cyborg and Beast Boy for support.  They stared at her with equally horrified expressions.  ‘Robin’s not well,’ she finally said.

               ‘You mean he’s not there.’

               ‘He’s in his room,’ Raven said, ‘resting.’

               Batman’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Without his communicator?’  His gaze slid over her shoulder.  ‘Or his utility belt?’

               Raven shot a despairing look over her shoulder at the utility belt, sitting in plain sight on the table.  ‘I … we have a lot to tell you.’  She bit her lip.  ‘Actually … we could use your help.’

               On the tiny screen, Batman seemed to straighten.  If those ears on his cowl had been real, Raven imagined they’d have pricked up.  ‘Go ahead.’

               ‘I’ll get him up on the big screen,’ Cyborg murmured.  Nodding, Raven trailed to the sofa.

               A few taps of the keyboard from Cyborg, and the screen in Raven’s hand went dark.  Instead, Batman’s face loomed over the living room on the widescreen.  Wherever he was, it was dark and cramped, little more than shadows behind him.  But faint blue-white glow bounced off the edges of his mask.  He was sitting in front of a computer screen.  As he spoke, he moved his arms, as if he were driving.

_He’s calling from the Batmobile?_   Raven frowned.

               Beast Boy and Cyborg sat either side of her on the sofa.  Cyborg’s expression was guarded, but Beast Boy stared with obvious, wide-eyed foreboding.

               Raven took a deep breath, and ploughed straight in.  ‘Robin is possessed.’

               If Batman was surprised, he didn’t show it.  His eyes barely tightened, and otherwise he didn’t move at all.  ‘As in demonic possession?’

               ‘It’s a real thing,’ Raven said, a touch defensively.

               Batman’s lip twitched—whether to frown or smile, she couldn’t tell.  ‘After the things I’ve seen in this job, I’ll believe it.  How do you know?’

               Raven took a deep breath.  Beside her, Beast Boy reached out and set a hand on her shoulder, wafting a familiar smell of animal fur toward her.  Even in his human form, he smelled like that.  She used to hate it.

               Bending to pick up _DEMONIACO_ , Raven flipped it open and began to explain.

 

* * *

 

Outside Robin’s window, the sun was low enough to turn the sea to liquid gold.  He twisted his hands, checking the smoke pellets couldn’t just slip out his gloves, and shifted the rope back up his shoulder.

               Raven’s incense sticks had burned without stopping, slowly dropping grey-white ash on his bookshelf.  He could hardly breathe for the smoke.  In any other building, they’d have set the fire alarms off, but the alarms at Titan’s Tower were smart enough to sense heat and light as well as smoke.

               Through his bedroom door, Robin recognised the sound of his communicator beeping.

               _Slade._

               He was here.  Time to open the gates.

               Robin grabbed the incense sticks, cradling the smoking ends with his opposite palm.  He set them down on the bedsheets, leaned over and blew softly.

               The incense sticks blazed orange.  And with a tiny flicker, the sheets caught alight.

 

* * *

 

‘… But it didn’t _work_.’  Raven closed _DEMONIACO_ with a snap, shoving her hair back from her face.  ‘I did the exorcism, and it should’ve fixed everything.  But I couldn’t even _find_ the demon, much less pull it out.’  She stared up at Batman’s patient, neutral face.  ‘Robin hates me.’

               ‘Most likely,’ Batman said flatly.  ‘It sounds like you put him through a lot of pain.’

               It felt like a punch in the stomach.  Raven drew her shoulders up, trapping her hands between her knees.  ‘I know.’

               ‘Dude, she had to,’ Cyborg said.

               ‘Yeah,’ Beast Boy said quickly.  ‘Robin’s, like, totally cuckoo for Coco Puffs right now.’

               For a moment, Batman simply glared at each of them.  Then his face softened and, to Raven’s surprise, he brought a gloved hand to his face, rubbing at his temple.  ‘I know you’re trying to help.  I’m sure he knows that too, although …’  He sighed.  ‘When Robin came to Gotham, I noticed he was—off.’

               Raven nodded.

               ‘Erratic behaviour, insomnia, he doesn’t eat, he’s seeking bad company and endangering himself …’

               Raven stood, spreading her arms.  Everything she’d noticed, every symptom of the demon clawing deep into Robin’s soul.  And Batman saw them, too.  ‘ _Exactly_ —’

               But up on the big screen, Batman stared down at them with hard eyes.

               ‘Robin isn’t possessed,’ he said.  ‘He’s depressed.’

               For a heartbeat, the room was silent.

               And then the room turned scarlet as the emergency lights flashed on, and fire alarms screamed through the Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Batman's other name is Common Sense Man. :p
> 
> As always, thanks to my lovely editor, Mana! x


	21. Chapter 21

It took longer than Robin expected for the sensors to pick up the fire.  He crouched by the bed, shielding the flames as they slowly ate through his sheets.  Outside, he heard the Titans speaking softly.  They sounded surprisingly calm.

               They obviously thought they could keep Slade out.

               The lights went red, and Robin straightened as the alarms blared.  An instant later, his bedroom door whooshed open—a safety measure, to ensure no one was ever trapped in the Tower in case of fire.

               Stuffing the batons in the waistband of his leggings, Robin scooped up his bag and raced out into the hallway.  Behind him, there was a hiss as the sprinkler system automatically activated over the source of the fire—in his bedroom.

               He heard the Titans’ voices before he stepped into the living room.  They were raised over the alarm, loud and panicked.

               ‘A fire—’

               ‘—oh _crap_ —’

               ‘—it’s in Robin’s room!’

               That last one was Cyborg.  As Robin burst into the living room, Cyborg looked up from the readout on his arm, and stepped back.

               Robin dropped his bag.

               They were all on the other side of the sofa—Beast Boy, Raven, Cyborg.  They hesitated, staring at him like startled deer.  Robin slipped a smoke pellet from his glove.

               ‘Robin, man,’ Cyborg lowered his arm, ‘we don’t wanna fight.’

               Robin threw the pellet.

               It cracked on the floor between Raven and Beast Boy, swallowing them all in black smoke.

               Beast Boy flew out first, a sharp-winged green falcon heading for Robin like a torpedo.  Robin rolled aside last second, then reached up to snatch Beast Boy’s tail feathers.  Beast Boy screeched, and with a blur, Robin was holding the tail of a snarling cheetah.  He leaped back, avoiding Beast Boy’s snapping teeth—

               And slammed into Cyborg’s broad chest.

               Cyborg grabbed for him and Robin dropped to floor.  Flipping back, he twisted out of Cyborg’s reach, stood up and side-stepped Beast Boy as he pounced, sending him crashing into Cyborg instead.

_Raven, I need to take out Raven._   She could exorcise him—could hurt him.  Teeth gritted, Robin slipped the rope off his shoulder.

               She rose out of the smoke, eyes glowing.  She spread her arms and if Robin hadn’t already believed in demons he’d have started right then.  Bathed in scarlet from the alarm lights, wreathed in smoke, eyes sharp and burning, Raven looked straight out of some old painting of Hell.  She met his eyes, and it only lasted a breath, but it felt like forever.

               With a snarl, Robin threw the rope.

               It flew fast and struck, the cords winding tight around Raven’s body, pinning her arms to her sides.  She dropped to the floor with a yelp.

               Something slammed into Robin’s back and he fell forward, air bursting from his lungs.  He barely managed to roll onto his back, gasping, as green shape reared up in front of him, almost black in the red lights.  Beast Boy drew back his mouth to reveal two rows of sharp white teeth, and roared.

_Bear._

               Robin barely thought the word before Beast Boy slammed down over him, great paws landing either side of Robin’s shoulders.  Robin snatched the batons from his waistband, and cracked them into the side of Beast Boy’s head.

               Beast Boy drew back with a grunt, more surprised than hurt—his bear form was tough.  So Robin didn’t give him a second to recover.  He cracked the batons up under Beast Boy’s jaw, then kicked his belly.

               Rearing back, Beast Boy let out a snarl of pain, which turned into yelping as he transformed into a long-legged, skinny dog.  He darted back on fast legs, then whirled into his human form as Robin jumped to his feet.

               ‘Robin—’ Beast Boy clutched his stomach, ‘—stop—’

               Robin brought his foot up, and cracked his heel into Beast Boy’s temple.  Beast Boy slumped.

               Robin turned—and was blinded by the blue-white light of Cyborg’s cannon.  He froze, panting for breath.

               Overhead, the blaring alarms went suddenly silent.  The red lights faded, and turned white.  A cool, robotic female voice spoke over the intercom.  _‘Fire neutralised.’_

               Slowly, Robin lifted his gaze to meet Cyborg’s, and scowled.  ‘You’re gonna shoot me?’

               Cyborg’s brow kitted.  His shoulders lowered—but he didn’t drop the cannon.  ‘I don’t know.  Are you gonna make me shoot you?’

               They held each other’s gaze for another second, and then Robin slowly raised his hands, opening his palms to drop the batons in surrender.  The instant that blinding glow dulled from the end of Cyborg’s cannon, Robin slapped his palms down on top of it.  He shoved Cyborg’s arm down, using the purchase to leap into the air and over Cyborg’s head.

               He landed, twisted, and planted his boot in Cyborg’s back.  Despite his greater weight, Cyborg was caught off-balance; he stumbled, and then tripped over Beast Boy and went sprawling.  Robin snatched up his batons, and jammed one into the back of Cyborg’s neck, in the joint above his shoulder blades.

               Cyborg yelled out, jerking like a grounded fish.  White sparks crackled around his neck.  Robin leaped back, and Cyborg dropped.

               On the floor, Raven wriggled and struggled against the ropes.  Robin stepped around the sofa, and she took a breath, opening her mouth—

               Robin swept down, snatched up a corner of Raven’s cloak, and stuffed it in her mouth.  She let out a choked sound of shock, and then a scream of rage.  Robin darted away as black shadows whipped around her—

               ‘That’s enough!’

               Robin’s head snapped up as Raven’s shadows faded to nothing.  He peered up through the smoke, searching for that voice.  The stomach-churningly familiar voice.  As the smoke cleared and the wide screen came into view, his heart jerked, as if yanked on an invisible chain.

               ‘Batman?’

               No wonder the Titans hadn’t sounded worried.  It wasn’t Slade calling them after all.  They were just trying to rope in ally.  Robin tensed, cold spreading through his chest.  Just another person he couldn’t trust.

               Bruce stared at him from under the black cowl.  By the looks of the cramped, dark background, he was flying in the jet.  ‘I’d be proud, if you hadn’t just done that to your own team mates.’

               Robin bared his teeth.  ‘You have no idea what my own team mates have done.’

               ‘I know exactly what they’ve done, Robin.’  Bruce’s voice softened.  ‘And I’m sorry.  They were wrong.’

               Robin turned, scooping up his bag.  ‘You’re damn right they were.’  His belt and communicator sat on the kitchen table—he buckled the belt at his waist, slipping the communicator on it.

               ‘Robin, wait.’  It wasn’t an order.  Bruce’s voice was soft, appealing but weary.  The way he spoke to Freeze and Two-Face and Harley Quinn.  Hoping they’d listen but knowing they probably wouldn’t.  Robin scoffed—so what, he was a villain too, now?  ‘I’m en route to Jump.  I’ll meet you—’

               ‘By the time you get here, I’ll be gone,’ Robin snapped.  ‘I’m gonna catch this killer, and then I’m getting out of here.’

               Bruce straightened.  ‘With Deathstroke?’

               Robin’s jaw tightened as he pressed the button to open the elevator.  ‘Don’t come after me.  I’ll call you sometime.’  He cast a quick glance over the Titans.

               The elevator doors swept open.  He hoisted his bag on his shoulder, ignoring Bruce’s panicked call— _‘Robin, wait!’_ —and stepped inside.  The doors closed behind him, and he finally sagged against the wall.

               Nearly free.  He was so, so nearly free.  And soon, he’d be back in Slade’s safehouse, under Slade’s sheets, under _Slade_.  A warm shiver ran up his spine.  Everything was going to change.  Everything was going to be _better_.

               The elevator opened at the ground floor, and Robin marched out onto the rocks, taking a deep breath of warm sea air.  The tide was low, waves hushing against the island.

               ‘Robin.’

               Robin spun on his toes, batons coming up.  Then he lowered them, breathing a sigh.  ‘Slade.’

               He stood at the base of the Tower, shaded from the setting sun.  Light glinted off the coppery half of his mask, catching on a sharp edge.

               ‘Batman’s coming,’ Robin said quickly.  ‘We have to go—Star City, or Blüdhaven—anywhere.’  Before Slade could complain, Robin added, ‘The killer’s following me, right?  So we can still catch him.  He followed me to Gotham.’

               A moment of silence, and cold dread spread through Robin’s stomach, because what if Slade refused?  What if Slade wanted to stay—wanted to fight Batman?  But then—

               ‘Yes, Robin.’  Slade stepped forward.  ‘I did.’

               Too late, Robin realised what the light was glinting off—the sharp edge of a crack, splitting Slade’s mask in two.  A deeper, harder, more painful cold burned over Robin’s skin.  He knew that voice; too low, too gravelled, like someone _trying_ to sound like Slade.

_I should have known this was what you wanted.  Slut._

               He dropped his stance, ready to charge in and swing upwards.  To crack that mask right off the killer’s face.

               The batons slipped from his fingers.

               Robin heard them, distantly, as they hit the rocks at his feet.  But his fingers were already numb.  He ground his teeth, fighting desperately as his muscles tensed.  He couldn’t move.  He could barely breathe.

_But—the antidote—_

               The killer stepped closer, putting his finger under Robin’s chin to tilt his up his head.

               They were the same height, Robin realised.  The killer only seemed taller because he stood higher on the rocks, staring down at him with one cool blue eye.

_Slade’s eyes are grey._

               Robin’s arm trembled as he strained to reach up and knock his hand away.  Nothing.  He might as well have been locked in a straight-jacket.

               ‘Remind me to thank Raven,’ the killer murmured, ‘for cleaning that pesky antidote out of your blood.’

               Robin’s heart seemed to go still, as if the paralysis had clawed in that deep.

_It should’ve cleansed any foreign entity out of your body …_

               The killer leaned in close.  ‘Go to sleep, Robin.’

               The corners of Robin’s vision crackled, and blackened into a tunnel that slowly closed around that single blue eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful editor, Mana! x


	22. Chapter 22

_They were halfway through Beast Boy’s latest kung fu movie when the alarm went off._

_The smooth, robotic voice of the alarm system drowned out the ninjas on the screen.  ‘Unknown aircraft approaching Titan’s Tower.’_

_While Beast Boy fumbled with the remote, Robin said,  ‘On screen.’_

_The movie flickered and disappeared, replaced with a video feed from the top of the tower.  A great dark jet soared over the city towards them, all sharp angles and smooth dark paint._

_Robin’s mouth dropped open—and then he grinned.  ‘Batman.’_

_He was racing for the elevator before the others were even off the sofa.  The tower had been so quiet since Starfire left.  Well, OK, not_ quiet _.  But Cyborg and Beast Boy’s friendly_ _bickering wasn’t the same as Starfire’s chatter, and the mornings didn’t feel right without her walking past Robin’s door, singing brightly to herself as she headed to make breakfast._

_But Bruce—well, things were never quiet around Bruce.  If it wasn’t glittering parties full of people laughing and tumbling drunkenly into the decorative fountain, it was back alley robberies with only you and your wits against ten men with guns._

_Robin’s heart sped up.  He hadn’t worked with Bruce for so long.  Not since he picked up Jason.  But why else would Bruce come?  He must need help.  And maybe it would be weird, slipping back into the role of sidekick, especially with Jason along for the ride, but Robin couldn’t stop grinning.  He needed something—anything—to distract him from waiting day after day for Starfire’s next call from Tamaran._

_It was raining outside, silver darts streaking down the blue-black night sky.  Robin hunched as he stepped out on the roof, peering up at the dark shape of the Bat Jet hovering over the Tower.  It almost never rained in Jump.  Robin smirked; at least Bruce would feel at home._

_Hot air blasted down from the jet, sending Robin’s cape flapping behind him, his hair flying back.  Footsteps stomped up behind him as the others hurried to catch up._

_‘Thanks for waiting.’  Cyborg poked Robin between the shoulder blades._

_Robin just shot him a grin, and headed out across the roof as the jet set down.  The others hung back.  Robin would never fault their bravery, but Batman’s reputation was something fierce.  Even if you were the good guys._

_Still, he thought he heard Beast Boy let out a little fanboyish squeak as the jet door swung open.  Batman swung down from the cockpit, black cape flaring behind him, and landed in front of Robin._

_‘You know,’ Robin folded his arms, smiling broadly, ‘if you’d called ahead we could’ve ordered more pizza.’_

_He barely caught the wide-eyed, haunted look in Bruce’s eyes, before Bruce reached and dragged him into a crushing hug._

_‘Ah!’  Robin squirmed, pushing against Bruce’s armoured chest.  Behind him, his friends’ stares burned into the back of his head.  ‘Batman, what the hell?  Let go.’_

_Bruce loosed his grip, but kept his hands on Robin’s shoulders.  ‘Dick.’  He sounded like he’d been punched in the throat._

_Robin glanced back at his friends, blood flooding into his face.  ‘Don’t call me that!’_

_But Bruce just stared at him, not angry or apologetic or … anything.  But the longer he stared, the more Robin pieced together what he’d ignored until now.  The under-eye bruises, just barely visible under Bruce’s cowl.  The stubble growing over his jaw.  The scuffs and scratches on his armour.  The way he was favouring one leg, like he’d been in a fight, and hadn’t taken the time to rest up._

_‘Batman …’  Cold shivers of dread crept up his spine.  He glanced up at the jet, quiet and dark in the rain.  Where was Jason?  Had Bruce left him in Gotham?  Had they had another fight?  He lowered his voice.  ‘You’re hurt.  What’s wrong?’_

_Bruce’s jaw worked, like he was trying to speak and no sound was coming out.  His hands tightened on Robin’s shoulders.  Like Robin was about to run away.  Or disappear._

_‘Dad,’ Robin whispered.  ‘Where’s … where’s Jason?’_

_‘Jason’s dead.’_

_For a moment, Robin didn’t feel anything at all.  No shock, no pain, no sadness.  He just stared, because what Bruce just said didn’t make sense._

_‘W-what?’_

_‘We had an argument.’  Bruce’s voice was low and dead, like he was too tired to feel anything anymore.  ‘He stormed out alone.  I went after him but …’_

_Robin only managed one word.  ‘Who?’_

_‘The Joker.’_

_For a moment, all Robin could hear was the rain, hammering down on the roof around him like drums.  The Joker?  They’d dealt with the Joker before.  He was all about tricks and mind games.  No way was Jason dead.  This was just a joke.  Another awful, painful joke.  Jason was stashed away somewhere, ready for the Joker to whip out for his punchline._

_He straightened.  ‘Do we have proof—’_

_‘We have Jason.’  Bruce’s voice shook, just a little.  ‘We have his … body.’_

_Everything went still.  Robin couldn’t even hear the rain anymore.  It must’ve stopped.  He barely heard Bruce still speaking, his voice flat and robotic._

_‘We don’t know what the Joker did to him.  Not everything.  There was an explosion.  He was burned.  The autopsy found broken ribs and missing teeth and fingernails.’  He sounded as numb as Robin felt.  Like he was talking about the weather.  Like he couldn’t even hear himself._

_Robin didn’t cry, and he didn’t tell Bruce to stop.  If Bruce didn’t tell him the details now, he’d only look up the case files himself, and they both knew that.  He still wasn’t crying.  Why wasn’t he crying?  It felt like his insides had been scooped out.  Like he was empty._

_‘The funeral’s next week,’ Bruce said.  ‘In the manor grounds.  We … I need you at home, Dick.’_

_Robin nodded, hazy.  ‘I’ll get my things.’_

_As he turned, Bruce caught his arm.  Robin looked back slowly._

_‘I’m sorry,’ Bruce said._

_Robin just nodded again.  Turning, he headed to the Titans waiting by the door.  He felt like he was walking through fog.  His shoulders were cold; the rain had soaked through his cloak and shirt._

_‘Oh my god,’ Beast Boy whispered, bouncing on the balls of his feet, staring at Batman over Robin’s shoulder.  ‘Is that really him?  Is he staying?  Are we doing a mission together?  This is so cool!’_

_Robin stared.  ‘I have to go home.’_

_Beast Boy fell still, his manic grin slowly fading.  Behind him, Cyborg frowned._

_‘Robin?’ Raven said softly.  ‘What’s wrong?’_

_‘I have to go to a funeral,’ Robin said.  ‘My brother’s dead—’_

_For the first time, Jason’s face flashed up in his mind.  Smirking, cocky._ ‘Is your name Dick, or is that just what he calls you?’

_He was never going to see that face again._

_And that was when the first sob burst out of him, like a punch in the gut.  He curled over, covering his mouth with his hand, and screamed._

 

* * *

 

Raven chomped at the wad of cloak stuffed in her mouth.  She twisted her wrists, trying to wriggle her hands out of the ropes, but couldn’t break free.  Huffing, she rolled onto her back.

               The big screen on the wall was black.  Batman hung up the moment Robin walked out.  Helpful.

               Her heart worked in a steady _thud, thud, thud_ in her chest.  Wriggling her hips, she curled her knee and worked her foot up into the folds of her cloak.  It slipped off her toes—once, twice—and she snarled in frustration.  Black tendrils snaked out of her skin, cold, grasping, and she took a deep breath.

               She would get out of this.

               _Azerath._

               Because she had to.

               _Metrion._

               Because if she didn’t, Robin would get himself killed.  Because of her.

               _Zinthos._

               The control was barely there, but barely was enough.  If Raven could control her emotions in the middle of a life-and-death battle, she could control them now.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Draw the magic back in.

               She slipped her foot into her cloak again, and this time hooked her toes into the material.  As she stretched her leg out, the material went taut—and slipped out of her mouth.  Raven spluttered, spitting the dry taste from her mouth.  Flipping onto her belly, she worked her knees under her and sat up.  _Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Get your magic under control._

               Closing her eyes, she felt for the knots in the rope.  ‘Azerath … metrion … zinthos.’

               The ropes came loose, dropping to the floor around her.  Raven stretched out her arms with a relived sigh—then hurried to Cyborg and Beast Boy.

               Cyborg was sprawled on his belly, his eyes glazed.  The usually bright blue electrical systems across his body had faded to grey and black.  But underneath him, Beast Boy was wheezing, blinking dazedly, trying feebly to work his way free.  His expression was vague, like he couldn’t see properly.

_Concussed._   Raven stretched her arm out, and shadows rippled over Cyborg’s arms and legs, lifting him gently.  She set him down on the sofa, lying on his back, and then crouched to loop Beast Boy’s arm over her shoulders.  She half-carried him to the kitchen table.

               ‘Man,’ Beast Boy muttered, pressing a hand to his temple.  ‘Robin kicks _hard._ ’

               He sat, and let Raven prise his hand away and replace it with her own.  Sending her senses outward, she felt for a moment the same throbbing pain as Beast Boy, and then soothed it under the soft glow of her palms.

               Beast Boy sagged as she lowered her hands.  ‘Thanks, Raven.’

               He glanced at Cyborg.  Raven winced.  Cyborg was harder to fix—she couldn’t sense pain in circuits, couldn’t heal wires and batteries.  But she knew a little.  Rising to her feet, Raven moved to Cyborg’s side, Beat Boy trailing behind her, biting his lip with pointed teeth.

               Kneeling by Cyborg’s head, Raven turned his arm over, pressing her thumb into a divot in his mechanical wrist.  A screen lit up on the underside of Cyborg’s arm.

 

               ERROR DETECTED.  SYSTEM SHUTDOWN INITIATED.  VITAL SYSTEMS PROTECTED.

                              >RESTART

                              >ADVANCED STARTUP

                              >SHUT DOWN

 

               Raven tapped ‘RESTART’, and the screen went blank.  She stepped back, pulling her cloak close around her.  _Please work._   Beast Boy touched her arm, and she let him draw her hand into his.  _Please, please work._

               For a long, awful moment, nothing happened, and Raven’s chest grew tighter with each breath.  Then Cyborg shuddered, and his electrical components lit up.  His human eye blinked, while the robotic one flashed a few times, struggling to boot up.  He raised his head and groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

               ‘Man, what did Robin hit me with?  Feels like someone ripped all my wires out and replaced them with spaghetti.’

               Raven sagged as Beast Boy crowed in victory, his hand slipping out of Raven’s as he punched the air.  He grabbed Cyborg around the neck in a tight hug, and Cyborg yelped, batting him away.

               ‘Ow!  Lemme go, BB!’  He pushed Beast Boy off, but they were both laughing.  ‘Jeez man, how about next time you get whiplash I stick you in headlock, see how you like it?’  He chuckled, then glanced up at Raven.  His smile faded.  ‘Robin?’

               Raven opened her mouth … and closed it.  She shook her head.

               ‘Man …’ Cyborg sighed, and then frowned.  He glanced at the screen in his arm.  Brow knitted, he stretched his hand out and shook it, then stared at the screen again.  ‘Uh, guys?  Did we have a break in?’

               ‘No, dude, Robin broke _out_ ,’ Beast Boy said.  ‘Is your head OK?’

               ‘No.’  Cyborg’s eyes flicked up.  He tiled his arm to show the red alarms flashing on the screen.  ‘We had a break in.’

               There was a beat of silence, and then another voice cut through the room—low and familiar, sending a trickle of cold straight down Raven’s spine.

               ‘And here I thought Titan’s Tower had the best security in Jump.’

               A shadow detached itself from near the elevator, and Raven’s heart thudded.

               Slade.

               Cyborg leaped to his feet, hand disappearing into his cannon.  But there was a crack like bone breaking, and his arm stuck halfway.  Crying out, Cyborg staggered back, cradling his mangled arm.  He wasn’t done rebooting.  Wasn’t ready to fight.

               Instinct kicking in, Raven swept forward.  She didn’t need to look to know that Beast Boy was moving beside her in his tiger form, closing in to protect Cyborg.

               ‘Evening, Titans,’ Slade stepped closer, not flinching at Beast Boy’s bone-shaking snarl.  His eye fixed on Raven, and narrowed.  ‘Tell me … _where is Robin?_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beautiful editor Mana, who thoroughly deserves hugs from everybody. x


	23. Chapter 23

‘The hell d’you mean, “Where’s Robin?”’ Cyborg snarled, cradling his mangled arm behind Raven.  ‘He’s run off to find you!’

               ‘If Robin intended to find me, he’d know where to look,’ Slade said coolly.  ‘He never showed up.’

               Raven closed her fist at her side, letting her magic quietly build beneath the folds of her cloak, where Slade couldn’t see it.  ‘Maybe he ditched you.’

               Slade’s voice had a cutting edge sharp as broken glass.  ‘Check your security footage.’

               But Raven’s power had built now, to the point where she could feel it straining to leap out of her.  She didn’t even need to say the words—black tendrils leaped from her hands faster than thought, snaring Slade’s chest and lifting him from the floor.  ‘I don’t think so.’

               Slade snarled, reaching for his belt.  Lifting her hand, Raven spread open her fist, and the blackness encircling him grew, swallowing up his hands, reaching right up to his throat.

               ‘You’ve used Robin enough!’ she snapped.  ‘We won’t let you hurt him anymore.’

               To her surprise, she barely felt Slade fight against her grip.  But his glare was cold as the first bite of frost.

               ‘You should worry less about me, and more about the killer out for his blood.’  He lowered his voice to a lethal whisper.  ‘Or didn’t he trust you enough to tell you?’

               ‘Shut up!’ Raven snarled, tightening her grip so that Slade let out a small, strained noise as the air was pressed from his lungs.

               Because he was right.  Robin didn’t trust her.  He didn’t trust any of them.

               _And it’s my fault._

               Raven couldn’t help him.  She didn’t know how.

               ‘Cyborg,’ she muttered, ‘check the security.’

               ‘I don’t—’

               ‘ _Please._ ’  She ground the word out through gritted teeth, feeling her magic flare and barely keeping it from crushing Slade entirely.

               A moment later the snarling tiger at her side was gone, and Beast Boy set his hand on her shoulder.  Not restraining, but warm and grounding.  She let out a shaky breath.

               Cyborg’s footsteps shifted behind her.  Raven kept her eyes fixed on Slade, but listened for the sound of Cyborg tapping at the computer, booting up the security footage.  ‘There,’ he said finally.  ‘That’s Robin leaving the Tower.’

               Raven walked in a slow circle around the sofa, keeping Slade in the edge of her vision while she watched the big screen.  The footage was taken from high above the door.  On the screen, Robin stepped outside and hesitated—and then jumped as someone stepped out of the shadows.

               ‘And that,’ Cyborg said, curling his lip at Slade, ‘is _you_.’

               ‘Hah!’ Beast Boy jabbed a finger at Slade.  ‘Busted.’

               ‘That isn’t me,’ Slade said softly.

               Raven glanced back at him.  She could feel his shoulders tensing in her grip.  He was angry.

               Or … _worried_?

               The idea brought her mind to a grinding halt.  Slade didn’t worry.  Slade definitely didn’t worry about _Robin_.

               But as she looked back at the screen, she couldn’t help but see that Slade was right.

               Whoever was speaking to Robin, he was shorter than Slade.  More slight, too, although the armour almost disguised the fact.  And his mask—

               ‘His mask is cracked,’ she breathed.

               On the screen, Robin suddenly tensed.  The man in Slade’s mask stepped closer, and Raven’s heart thudded against her ribs.

               ‘Uhhh, this is gonna sound crazy,’ Beast Boy said slowly, ‘but, didn’t someone just steal Slade’s old mask from our storage?’

               ‘That isn’t crazy, BB.’  Cyborg’s jaw was slack as he stared up at the on-screen Robin, who suddenly slumped.  The man in Slade’s mask caught him, and a moment later they were both gone, so fast it seemed like they hadn’t really moved at all.

_Now_ Raven felt Slade struggle.  Her gaze snapped back to him, and she breathed slowly, concentrating on maintaining her grip as Slade’s arms shook against her.  Her magic was so close against him, she could feel his pulse.  And it was fast.

               ‘The killer has Robin,’ he said, and again his tone was far too calm for the panic Raven could _feel_ rushing through him.  ‘Let me go.  If you want to find him in time, you need all the help you can get.’

               Raven stared up at him.

               She hadn’t been able to help Robin.  Not at all.  Not once.  She’d missed _everything_ , misread every sign.

               The image of Britney on Robin’s communicator flashed through her head.  Pale.  Branded.

               Dead.

               Her throat closed up as she tried to swallow.  She glanced back at Cyborg.  ‘Robin’s gone,’ she croaked.  ‘You’re in charge.’

               Cyborg stared at her for a long time.  She could almost see the same panicked images tearing through his head; the calculations running at the same time.  The chances of the three of them successfully hunting Robin down in a city the size of Jump.  How much those chances increased with one extra person on their side.  The risk factor of that extra person being _Slade_.

               ‘Let him down,’ Cyborg finally said.  ‘I guess … I’d better make a call.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update today - I promise the chapter on Thursday will be longer, and yes, we will be back with Robin. :)
> 
> Thanks as always to the lovely Mana, who does such beautiful work editing my fic. Thank you! x


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! Please check the notes at the end if you want to avoid potential triggers.

Robin ached all over.

               He blinked blearily, pressing his tongue to the roof of his dry mouth.  It felt like he’d taken a beating.  Like he’d just emerged from that alley where Slade found him, curled on the tarmac, boots pummelling into his ribs.

               The room was sweltering.  All he could see were shadows, swaying back and forth against an orange glow.  He was lying on his back—not in bed but on something hard.  A table?  When he tried to lift his arms they wouldn’t move.  But he didn’t feel the bite of zip ties or the rough scratch of rope, or the sticky tightness of duct tape.  No restraints at all.  His arms were just too heavy to lift.

               _The killer._

               Breath coming faster, Robin squeezed his eyes shut.  He broke free before.  He could do it again.  He strained, reaching for any kind of sensation deep in his fingertips.

               ‘That won’t work.’

               A shadow blotted the orange light burning through Robin’s eyelids.  He opened his eyes.

               The killer stood at his right; Robin could just turn his head to glare up into that cracked mask.  He was lying at waist-height, sweat trickling down his back.  The heat was unbearable.  The killer moved aside, and Robin saw its source.

               A fireplace, blazing only a few steps away.  It was the source of that flickering orange glow—the only light in the room.

               Who the hell lit a fireplace in Jump City?

               ‘I’m so glad we’re finally alone together, Robin.’  The killer paced down the table, lifting one hand and tracing it down Robin’s ribs.  ‘You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.’

               His fingers brushed over Robin’s hip, then down his thigh, and Robin tensed.  He could feel the light touch through his leggings, but couldn’t pull away.  His bones were lead.

               ‘What’s the matter?’  The killer closed his hand around Robin’s knee, hard and tight.  ‘Don’t you like it?’

               ‘Get off me,’ Robin spat.  ‘Creep.’

               ‘You didn’t complain before.’  The killer leaned closer, his blue eye blazing behind the mask.  ‘When you thought I was Slade.’

               Robin’s stomach twisted, heat flooding into his face.  ‘You’re not Slade,’ he growled.  ‘You’re a coward in a broken mask.’

               ‘You still don’t know who I am?’  The killer straightened, letting out a soft huff, almost like laughter.  ‘After all those clues I sent you … I guess you really did move on.’ 

               Robin only glared.  Clues?  The only clue he’d ever seen was Slade’s S, branded into the victims’ skin.

               The killer ran a finger down the middle of his mask, tracing the line between the copper and the black.  ‘You used to be afraid of Slade, didn’t you?  Afraid of this mask.’  His eye closed, and he drew in a long, loud breath.  ‘I can smell it.  Fear, ingrained into the metal.’  He lowered his hand, eye flicking open.  ‘I suppose Slade doesn’t scare you, now you’re his _bitch_.’

               ‘Shut up!’  Robin tried to lunge, and only succeeded in heaving his shoulders off the table.  For a moment he strained, teeth gritted, sweat pouring down his neck.  Then he slumped, locked back in place.

               ‘You don’t deny it.’  The killer reached out again, tracing his finger over Robin’s jaw.  ‘I bet you’d moan like a whore if I fucked you in this mask.’

               Robin jerked away from the contact.  His face, at least, he could still move.  ‘Go to hell.’

               The killer drew his hand back—and then cracked it across Robin’s face, back-handed.  Robin cried out, vision glittering.  Sharp pain lanced over his scalp as the killer closed his fist in Robin’s hair and loomed down, so close his mask almost touched Robin’s nose.

               ‘I’ve been there.’  He tightened his fingers, yanking Robin’s head back as Robin snarled in pain.  ‘But I think you deserve it more.’  He pulled back, but kept his fist tight in Robin’s hair.  ‘You’re a disgrace.  And you know it, don’t you?  That’s why you haven’t told the Titans.  Or _Bruce_.’

               Robin’s chest tightened.  _Bruce._   Did the killer know he was Batman—or just that he had a connection to Robin?

               He must’ve guessed.  Despite the heat, Robin went cold all over.  How could he _not_?  And he’d already got into Wayne Manor once before without tripping the alarms.  He could do it again.

               Robin should’ve told Bruce.  Should’ve warned him.

               ‘I wonder what Bruce would say,’ the killer murmured.  ‘If he knew you were fucking a murderer.’

               Robin’s stomach lurched.  He opened his mouth to snap a response—then gasped as the killer’s hand tightened in his hair.  He lifted Robin’s head, and slammed it back against the table.  Robin heard the crack, dully, and his vision spun as blood pulsed through his skull.

               ‘I think it would destroy him, don’t you?’ the killer said casually.  ‘You’ve completely betrayed him.  Betrayed all of them.’  His one visible eye widened gleefully.  ‘And what if the Titans found out?  Well, I suppose that’d be the end, wouldn’t it?  One Robin dead, the other disgraced …’

               Robin’s insides turned to water.  He swallowed, and didn’t speak.  He was working too hard on trying to move his fingers.  Trying to force the numbness from his limbs with sheer willpower.

_Nothing._

               He might as well have tried to lift Titan’s Tower with his mind.

               ‘Then again, maybe you don’t care.’  The killer loosed his grip in Robin’s hair, and Robin let out a breath.  ‘You’re not exactly a hero anymore, are you Robin?’

               ‘And you are?’ Robin snapped.  ‘You killed innocent kids.’

               ‘I wouldn’t have killed them if not for you,’ the killer hissed.  ‘I thought the first body might make you sit up, pay attention.  But no.  The more I killed, the deeper you fell in with Slade.  Like you didn’t even care.  Like you _wanted them to die_.’

               Robin let out a scream of rage, unable to move, unable to even summon words.  _Thomas Newton.  Jack Harvey.  Britney Evans._   Names burned into his mind.  Faces he’d never forget, in cheap plastic masks.

               ‘Yes!’  The killer stood straight, eye glinting.  ‘You wanted them dead.  You wanted them dead, and you wanted more to die.  Because the more people died, the more you had an excuse to cling to Slade.  You know why?’  He set his hands either side of Robin’s shoulders, looming close.  ‘Because you’re a _bad person_ , Dick.  You’re not a hero.  You’re not even a villain.  You’re a pathetic little whore.  And when I’m done with you, the whole world will know.’

               The killer reached for his belt, and ripped out a knife.

               Robin’s breath came in sharp, hard pants.  His heart thundered hard enough to hurt.  He stared up at the knife, his mind numb with terror.  Then he snarled, wrestling against the heaviness in his limbs.  His fingers twitched, abdominals trembling as he fought to sit up.

               ‘I have to give you credit for persistence,’ the killer murmured, ‘but you can’t break free.’

               He hooked the blade under the hem of Robin’s shirt, and sawed upwards.  Robin hissed, shoulders twitching as he tried and failed to draw away.  He tipped his head back as the killer brought the knife all the way up to his collar, tearing Robin’s shirt in two.  He raised his hand, tossing the knife up and catching it, blade-down.  His eye flicked to Robin’s.

               He brought the knife down.

               Robin yelped—and the knife slammed into the table beside his head.

               ‘Relax, Robin.’  The killer put his hand on Robin’s chest, where his collarbones met in the middle.  He slipped his fingers down, pushing Robin’s shirt apart.  He wore gloves, but his touch felt like oil on Robin’s bare skin.  ‘I’m not going to kill you with a knife.’

               He drew back, turning away from Robin and bending down by the fireplace.  There was a high, scraping sound, like metal ringing out against a rock.  The fire hissed, gold sparks flying up like fireworks.

               The killer turned back, and Robin’s stomach turned to ice.

               The long iron bar was black at the handle.  But the other end—the end shaped into a sharp, curling letter S—burned white.

               _The scars._   They flashed into Robin’s head—black and white photographs of dark bruises around scorched skin.  The victims were branded.  His heart leaped into his throat, choking.  His thoughts blurred.

               He’d been kidnapped before.  Threatened.  Kicked around.  But he always got out.  He always got away, with Batman, or his friends—

               ‘Waiting for someone to rescue you?’ the killer murmured.  ‘I don’t think they’re coming, Robin.  I don’t think they care about you anymore.’

               He smoothed his hand over Robin’s chest, pressing down on the left as if trying to feel his heartbeat.  Robin’s breath was stuck in his throat.

               _He’s wrong._   He strained, his arms shaking.  _He’s wrong, I can break free.  I can get out._

               The killer lifted the brand, shifting his grasp on the bar.

               Robin clenched his teeth together.  His vision blurred with panicked tears.  _I can escape._

               Tilting his head, the killer twisted the brand until the S aligned perfectly, positioned right where Robin’s badge usually sat on his chest.  He hesitated, eye flicking up to meet Robin’s.  ‘I could let you go,’ he murmured.  ‘I could lift this brand away and let you walk out right now.  Just do one thing, Robin.’  His eye narrowed.  ‘Tell me who I am.’

               Robin’s heartbeat filled his entire body, blood thundering in his ears.  He didn’t know.  He’d never known.  They couldn’t work it out.  It wasn’t the Joker and it wasn’t Falcone and it wasn’t the psychic—

               ‘Come on, Robin.  I thought you’d have it by now.’  The killer’s leer was hidden behind his mask, but obvious in the tone of his voice.  ‘I’ll give you three seconds.  Three …’

               Mind spinning, Robin cast through every clue.  Nothing connected the victims.  Nothing except their age.  They weren’t troubled kids or runaways—

               ‘… two …’

               They were dressed in the same costume, in _his_ costume.  Branded with the same symbol, hovering now close enough to Robin’s skin for him to feel the heat radiating from it, scalding even from inches away.

               ‘… one …’

               ‘Falcone!’ Robin guessed desperately.  ‘You work for Falcone.’

               The killer tilted his head and sighed.  ‘Oh, Robin.  Wrong answer.’

_No._

_No, no, no._

               His eyes flicked around the dark space, searching for someone.  Anyone.  The walls were close and the ceiling was low, and there was no one.

               He was alone.

               He couldn’t escape.

               The killer brought the brand down, and pressed the scalding metal into Robin’s skin.

               Robin screamed, thrashing as much as his numb limbs would allow.  It felt deeper than his skin, burning all the way through his muscles, down to his heart.  Like serrated claws digging, tearing, ripping.  The stench of burning meat clogged his nose, and his stomach somersaulted.

               The killer pressed down harder, as if meaning to impale Robin all the way through.  Robin couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t think.  He could only scream, and scream, and scream.

               Then, with a heavy exhale, the killer peeled the brand back.  Robin felt his melted skin stick to the metal, tearing apart.  His vision blurred and darkened, and for a blissful moment everything—even the pain—numbed away to nothing.

               But a sharp slap brought him racing back to consciousness.  Robin shuddered, unable to bite back a sob at the throbbing, searing pain in his chest.

               The killer tossed the brand into the fire behind him.  Sparks flew up in a cascade, the flames snarling.  ‘There.  Now the world can see who you sold your soul to.’

               Robin rolled his head, sickness coiling in his stomach, rising in his throat.  He swallowed it back, tasting bile at the back of his mouth.  ‘Why are you doing this?’  His voice scraped, dry as sand.

               Drawing tall, the killer stared down at him with that one blue eye, and laughed softly.  ‘Because you betrayed me.’

               Cold, creeping dread filled Robin’s stomach below the blazing pain of the brand on his chest.  ‘Who are you?’

               The killer reached up behind his head, and undid the mask with a few heavy clicks.  As he pulled it off, a mass of black hair spilled out, longer in some places than others, like it’d been cut jaggedly with his knife.

               He lowered the broken mask, and set it down on the table.

               Robin’s head filled with smoke.

               Red-purple blisters crawled over the killer’s face, puckering the skin, shining and barely healed.  The eye hidden by the black half of Slade’s mask was melted away, the lids pinched closed.  Half his mouth was turned up in a permanent sneer, showing the black gaps of missing teeth.  And the scars—the _burns_ —covered his throat, mottling the skin beyond recognition.  That low, growling voice wasn’t an attempt to mimic Slade after all.  It was damaged vocal chords.  A voice burned away.

               He was barely recognisable.  But Robin knew him immediately, from the way his stomach plummeted, from the way that half-mouth curled up in a familiar smirk.  He barely managed to choke the name out.

               ‘Jason.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains a scene of kidnapping, torture and sexual assault.
> 
> Hoo boy, this chapter was a toughie. But the show ain't over, and I've got more tricks up my sleeve yet. :p
> 
> Heartfelt gratitude to Mana, my gorgeous editor, for helping me with this one! x


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING! Please check the end notes if you'd like details.
> 
> I believe this chapter nudges the wordcount over 50,000, making "Where the Light Won't Find You" officially NaNoWriMo-length. *Faint*

Giving a scar-twisted grin, Jason tilted his head in a mocking bow.

               Robin couldn’t speak.

               Jason was alive.

               Jump City was crashing down around him.  He could hear it—a roaring, rumbling constant sound, like an earthquake.  Or was that just the blood rushing in his ears?  He tried to say something.  To say he was glad.  To leap off the table and drag Jason into a hug and never let him go.

               But his face …

               Jason’s smirks and his scowls and his rare, genuine smiles—all torn apart by those scars.  Robin’s stomach dropped, and then dropped further.

               Jason … _Jason killed those kids._

               ‘No …’ he choked.  ‘You’re—you’re dead.  You died.’

               Raising his singed eyebrow, Jason tipped his head.  ‘Don’t you remember bringing me back?’

               _The smell of candle smoke.  The voice, following his chants right behind his head.  The figure forming in front of him, soft and vague but growing stronger …_

               Shakes rattled through Robin’s body, overpowering the numbness in his limbs.  ‘You killed those kids.’

               ‘Oh no.’  Jason stood tall.  ‘That wasn’t my fault.  That was you, Dick.  Perfect little Dick Grayson.  Because you _forgot me_.’

               ‘Forgot you?’ Robin choked.  ‘I could never—’

               ‘You forgot me the moment you fucked off with Slade!’ Jason roared, white spittle spraying from his ruined lips.  ‘I died a hero, Dick!  I was always the problem kid, the one with the bad family and the bad temper, the one who needed _fixing._ But thanks to me, the name Robin was immortalised forever.’  He bared his broken teeth in a snarl.  ‘And then there’s you.  Perfect fucking Dick Grayson.  _Why can’t you be more like Dick, Jason?_ ’

               Robin’s head spun.  The room tilted madly around him, and he couldn’t breathe.  The air was too hot, too close.  But his skin was cold.  ‘Bruce would never—’

               ‘He didn’t need to say it!  I knew he was thinking it.  D’you have any idea how much he just loved it when you came home?  Like you’d set me straight.  And how goddamn disappointed he was when you left, and he was stuck with just me.’

               Robin’s voice was tiny.  ‘Bruce loved you.’

               Jason sneered.  ‘He loves me better dead than he ever loved me when I was alive.  And so do you.’

               Robin slumped against the table.  The brand on his chest throbbed, each thud of his heart sending another sharp stab through it, burning over and over again.  And with it came waves of nausea.  His head spun.  He tried to say it wasn’t true, but only managed a weak mumble.  His vision was going soft.  Dark.  He was going to pass out again.

               New pain brought him sharply back.

               His leg.  Right where he’d been shot.

               Jason had set his hand on it, leaning down.  Robin cried out, nerves searing as the half-healed wound flared up in protest.

               ‘Is this where Slade touched you,’ Jason snarled, ‘when you laid back and called him “Master”?’

               Teeth gritted against two separate waves of pain, Robin squeezed his eyes shut.  How did Jason know all this?  Had he bugged Robin’s uniform?

               Jason shook his head.  ‘Dick Grayson, the perfect little prodigy, fucking a villain.  You’re disgusting.’  He lifted his hand off Robin’s leg, and Robin gasped as blood flooded through the wound.  But Jason left his fingertips where they were, tracing softly.  ‘Want me to fuck you right now, Dick?  I can put the mask back on.’

               Robin stared up at him, horror closing his throat.

               ‘I don’t hear a no.’  Jason trailed his fingers higher.

               ‘No!’ Robin yelped, trying in vain to heave himself away.  ‘No—Jason stop!’

               Jason smirked, his broken mouth making it close to a grimace.  ‘See.  That’s all you had to say to Slade.  Not too difficult?’  He trailed his fingers under the waistband of Robin’s leggings.  ‘But you didn’t.’

               Robin’s heart thudded against his ribs.  He was choking.  This wasn’t real.  It wasn’t happening.  ‘Jason, please … please don’t do this.’

               ‘You’re begging me?’  Jason let out a sharp bark of laughter.  ‘You’re actually begging me!  I didn’t even beg the Joker before he killed me.  You’re pathetic.’  He pinched the corner of Robin’s mask, and with a quick flick of the wrist ripped it off.  ‘You don’t deserve to wear this.’

               And then he slipped his hand down into Robin’s pants.

               Robin’s dry lips wouldn’t move.  His tongue was a lead weight, stuck to the roof of his mouth.  And Jason’s hand was tight and rough, giving sharp, painful tugs.  It was nothing like Slade’s touch, even when Slade was going fast.  Because Slade’s touch Robin wanted.  Craved.  And this …

               This turned Robin’s stomach.

               He trembled, fighting with every nerve to lift himself off the table.  He’d done it before.  He’d gotten free.  Why couldn’t he do it now?

               ‘You’re getting hard,’ Jason said.  ‘You actually like this, don’t you?  You fucking whore.’

               Robin tried to say no, and instead let out a sob.  _Get off me.  Stop._   But Jason didn’t stop, and Robin couldn’t make him.  And yes, he could feel the blood pooling in his cock; the growing strain in spite of Jason’s harsh handling.

               Jason.  Jason, his _brother_.

               He wanted to move.  He wanted to be sick.  He wanted to _die_.

               ‘You’re crying?’  Jason sneered.  ‘What’s the matter, Dick?  Don’t like it without Slade?’  He set his other hand on the cracked mask, and tightened his grip on Robin’s cock, so hard Robin cried out in pain—

               And came.

               It was agonising.  Every uncontrollable shudder send pain shooting up into his stomach, tearing down his thighs.  And the brand on his chest seared, but suddenly that was nothing compared to the tightness in his gut.  Robin squeezed his eyes shut, clamping his jaws against the shudders and sobs that broke over him, one after another.

               And over it all, Jason shouted, ‘You enjoyed that!  You filthy fucking _slut_ , you _liked_ it!’

               Robin didn’t answer.  He could barely breathe.  Come plastered over his stomach, trailing down his cock.  He wanted to be sick.  It wasn’t fair.  He’d hated it, had felt nothing but pain and sickness, but he couldn’t control his body.

               ‘No wonder Slade kept you around.  You’re so fucking easy.’  Jason sneered, gripping Robin’s chin in his damp, sticky hand.  ‘How long did you think you could keep it secret?  Did you even intend to?  I know you were going to run away with him.  You were just going to drag the name “Robin” through the mud, and you didn’t care.’  He slammed his fist into the table, hard enough that Robin felt it shake beneath him.  ‘ _My name, Dick!_ ’

               Robin could barely bring strength to his voice.  He was so tired.  It all hurt so much.  ‘No …’

               ‘You think the average dumbass on the street can tell one Robin from another?’ Jason snapped.  ‘One minute, Robin is a martyr, and the next he’s a whore.  And no one cares which of us the headlines are talking about.  I died a hero, and you dragged me back just so I could watch you _destroy me_.’

               ‘But …’ Robin’s lips were going numb.  He couldn’t lift his head anymore.  ‘But … you’re not dead.’

               Jason’s lips curled into a thin smirk.  ‘No.  But you will be soon.  I think the world only needs one Robin, and you don’t seem up to the job.’  He straightened.  ‘They’ll understand.  When I tell them what you did … Bruce and the Titans will forgive me.’  He traced the backs of his fingers over Robin’s cheek.  ‘Won’t they?’

               Robin saw in his head the looks of horror on his friends’ faces, when they realised he was working with Slade.  Just working with him.

               If they knew the truth …

               Reaching across Robin’s chest, Jason brushed his thumb over the burning brand.  It felt like claws, scraping through layer after layer of skin, digging for the soft flesh underneath.  Robin let out a hoarse cry of pain.

               And then Jason pressed down.

               Robin didn’t know if he was screaming anymore.  Everything was white light.  Fire.  Broken.  He couldn’t think.

               ‘That’s it, feel it.’  Jason’s voice was like an echo through deep water.  ‘Hold on to this pain.  You deserve this.’  He finally lifted his thumb away, and traced his hand down Robin’s ribs, almost comforting.  ‘Go to hell, Dick.’

               He said it as softly as if he was telling Robin to go to sleep.  And Robin fought, clinging to the orange flickering light even as his vision blurred, but now the white light was gone and he was so heavy.  So heavy, and sinking.  And the further he sank, the less everything hurt.

               _I’m dying._

               Dying felt so easy.

               A dark shape slipped over the corner of his vision.  It was a figure.  A black shadow, silhouetted against the fireplace, standing over Jason’s shoulder.  And without a word, without any noise at all, the figure reached up—

               And struck Jason down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains incest, sexual assault, violence, and verbal abuse.
> 
> So ... uh ... I hope I haven't lost you all with this one. ^^; I promise I did not include this level of "dark" lightly -- I hope you all still want to stay with me!


	26. Chapter 26

Robin couldn’t turn his head to look.  He was too heavy.  Too tired.

               But he saw, at the edge of his vision, Jason leap back up.  Saw him fly at the dark figure.  Heard the thump and the crash as they struggled, falling out of his sight.  His chest tightened, and he wasn’t sure if it was the poison creeping through him, or …

               A bang, and the table shook underneath him.  The dark figure hunched at Robin’s feet—thrown into the table.  Then they lurched up, and then Robin couldn’t tell where they went.  But he heard the rush and thumps of fists and feet, the grunts of pain.  Saw flashes of shadows over the ceiling.

               _Batman?_

               Robin’s breath shook.

               The dark figure swept in, knocking Jason back.  But then they slipped right out of Robin’s blurring line of vision.  Somewhere under the searing pain of the brand, cold crept into his chest.

               _Bruce can’t see me like this._

               And then—a scream.

               No, more than a scream.  It was a sound like metal tearing apart; like cats yowling in the middle of a fight; like knives screeching on a ceramic plate.  It cut into Robin’s ears like hot needles, sharp and searing.  And then, abruptly, it stopped.

               The room fell still.  Silent.

               Slowly, the shadow approached.  It took all his strength, but Robin pulled his lips together to breathe, ‘Batman?’

               The shadow drew closer, leaning down, and Robin caught a glint of copper.  ‘Try again.’

               ‘Slade …’  It was less a word and more a sigh.  The tightness in Robin’s chest eased in an instant.  It wasn’t Bruce.  It was OK.

               He could barely meet Slade’s gaze.  He’d never been this tired in his life.

               _I guess I’m finally gonna sleep._

               Slade touched Robin’s arm, just above the elbow.  Robin clung to that touch, wishing he could touch him back.  But he was so heavy now, there was no use trying to fight it.  Slade moved his hand up to Robin’s throat, tracing his jaw.  Robin’s head rolled to the left.

               _No._   He let out a breath—all he could do—as Slade’s mask slipped out of his darkened vision.  _I can’t see you._

               Something else touched his throat.  Something sharp.  A sting that slipped under his skin, spreading cold into his blood.

               Slade’s hand returned to Robin’s elbow, his thumb moving in slow, chafing circles.  Robin breathed in low, shallow sighs.  Gradually, warmth filled his chest.  Slipped down his arms.  He frowned.  Weren’t you supposed to go cold, when you died?

               Instead he grew warmer.  The heat of the fire grew unbearable again.  His fingers twitched.

               Groaning, he turned his head back to look at Slade.  That sharp pain in his throat …

               ‘Antidote?’ he mumbled, with half-numb lips.

               His vision had to be clearing, because he saw the way Slade’s shoulders lowered, as if he’d just released a breath.  ‘Yes.’  His hand tightened on Robin’s arm.  ‘Breathe slowly.  It’s still working.’

               ‘Nnng.’  The inside of his mouth felt sticky, his tongue swollen.  His lips tasted of salt.  But his head was clearing, and when he tested them, his arms moved.  Slade’s hand slid away as Robin pushed himself up on his elbows, then sat up.  His torn shirt grazed the edge of the burn on his chest, and Robin barely heard himself cry out as his vision blurred.

               Once, Robin caught one of Two-Face’s cronies in the hand with a birdarang.  He’d only meant to knock the AK-47 out of the guy’s hand, but the crony was wearing a ring, and the birdarang caught under the metal band as it flew round.  It was moving fast, and ripped the ring right off the guy’s finger—taking his skin with it.  All of it.  _Degloved_ , Batman called it.  It was the first time Robin threw up on a mission.

               This felt like that.  Like the skin had been peeled up, and ripped clean off his chest.

               He tugged at his shirt, but his fingers were still shaky and clumsy and he couldn’t grip.  Larger hands pushed his away, and Slade gently eased Robin’s ruined shirt down his arms, away from the burn.  He helped Robin slip his cloak off over his head.  Robin trembled.  He was boiling, his skin slick with sweat, but he shook like he was standing naked in a snowstorm.

_I’m going into shock._

               He swiped a hand over his stomach.  Over the— _mess_ —on his stomach.

               His gut twisted.  Snatching up the shredded remains of his t-shirt, he scrubbed himself clean.  It didn’t work.  His skin felt oily, tacky.  He needed a shower.  He scrubbed harder, face screwed up, breathing hard.  _Get it off, get it off—_

               Slade set his hand on Robin’s wrist, and he stopped.  Robin looked up at Slade—and went cold.

               Slade glanced down.  At Robin’s stomach.  At his own old, cracked mask on the table.  Then back up at Robin’s face.  His single grey eye burned.

               Robin already fucked one villain.

               What if … what if Slade thought …

_No.  No, no, no._

               Robin choked, ‘He made me—’

               Slade set his hand on the mask.  Then, with a bellow of rage, he threw it against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen pieces.

               Robin yelped, but Slade was already turning back, setting his hands on Robin’s shoulders, his grip hard.  ‘He will _never_ touch you again.’

               Robin held his gaze for barely a second before he crumpled, his head falling against Slade’s shoulder.  Slade’s grip on Robin’s arms weakened.  But he didn’t let go.

               ‘We need to get you out of here,’ he finally said.

               Robin straightened.  ‘Not the Titans—’

               ‘I won’t take you to the Titans.’  Slade pulled Robin’s cloak back up over his shoulders—not close enough to touch the burn on his chest, but loosely, hanging over him like blanket.  He touched Robin’s face, looking hard in his eyes.  ‘You’re stronger than this, Robin.  You won’t believe it now, but I know you are.  Up you get.’

               Robin tried to answer, but his tongue was a useless lump, so instead he swung his legs round and stepped down off the table.  Slade shifted back, and Robin managed two steps before his legs buckled.

               Slade caught him easily, one arm around Robin’s waist.  He looped Robin’s arm over his neck and dragged him across the room—all dark wood, cluttered with tools.  A shed.  A cramped old shed.  The last place all those other victims had seen.

               As Slade shouldered the door opened, Robin looked back over the shed.  Jason.  There should’ve been a body.  They should’ve had to step over him.  ‘Where’s Jason?’  His words were slurred, his jaw too heavy to move.

               ‘The killer’s gone,’ Slade said simply, and pulled Robin outside.

               Everything blurred.  Robin staggered after Slade down a cramped alley stinking of piss, then at the corner he stopped, bent over and threw up, leaning away from Slade, every retch searing his parched throat.  Shuddering, he straightened—

               And stared up at a dark shadow.

               Crying out, Robin flinched back.  _Not Raven.  Please, not Raven and the black magic and the cold claws digging in my chest—_

               Slade shifted as if on instinct, putting himself between Robin and the shadow.  Any other time, Robin would’ve been ashamed to hide behind him, but it was all he could do to stand up.

               ‘Robin?’

               That wasn’t Raven’s voice.

               Robin stared as the shadow came closer—became a pointed cowl and a sweeping cape—

               ‘Batman,’ Slade said wearily.  ‘I believe this is yours.’

               Robin let his arm slip off Slade’s shoulder.  His vision crackled, but he ignored it and took a step forward.  Under the cowl, Batman’s expression was almost impossible to read, but Robin recognised the tightness in the corners of his mouth, and the set of his jaw.  He had to stop him.  Stop Bruce, before he attacked Slade.  Before he blamed him.

               ‘I’m OK,’ he managed to breathe.

               Before his legs gave out, and he plummeted into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely editor Mana!
> 
> And seriously - thank you every single person who commented on my last chapters with encouragement and kindness. I was pretty nervous about posting that content, but you've all been wonderful. I was beaming reading through your comments - you guys always make my day, so thank you! x


	27. Chapter 27

The ceiling was blinding white.

               Robin lay still, blinking up at the ceiling panels.  His head was propped up on too many pillows, and when he shifted his feet, he felt layers of thin blankets slide over his legs.  His head felt soft inside—like it was stuffed with wool.

               He swallowed, and pushed himself up.

               And groaned.

               _Hospital bed._

               The room was empty, no other machinery beeping around him.  He plucked at the collar of his shirt—a papery blue hospital gown—with a grimace.  An IV was plastered to the back of his hand.

               Robin shuddered.  He’d been in plenty of hospitals, usually trailing behind Batman as they went to speak to some victim of the Penguin’s or the Riddler’s, or whoever else decided it would be fun to dislocate a guy’s arm or break all his ribs.  Robin knew they needed the intel, but he always hated it, seeing these people with pale faces and sunken eyes.  Hated pressing them to talk.

               Would Bruce do that to him?  Make him talk?

               The memory of Jason flashed into his head—one hand on Slade’s broken mask, the other on Robin’s cock—

               Robin closed his eyes, taking a long breath to fight back the shakes.

               _I don’t have the tell him anything._

               Shifting back a little, he slouched against the pillows.  His chest pulled; a raw, blunt pain that made him hiss.  A soft lump under his gown told him they’d bandaged the burn up.

Slade’s brand.

               He curled his knees up, resting his forehead on them.  If he said nothing, Bruce would assume Slade did this to him.  _He will never hurt you again._ He chewed on his tongue, swallowing back a lump in his throat.

               _Slade saved me._

               He couldn’t let Slade take the fall for this.  Taking another breath, he brushed his fringe out of his eyes.  The gel had melted, and his hair felt greasy and stiff.

               There was a soft click, and then the creak of a door opening.

               Robin raised his head.  ‘Bat—Bruce?’

               Bruce smiled faintly.  Gone was the black armour, the cape and the dark cowl.  Now, Bruce looked as though he’d just hurried out of a board meeting.  His shirt was half-untucked, his collar loose, his jacket slung over his elbow.  He shut the door softly behind him.  ‘Dick, you’re awake.’

               ‘It wasn’t Slade,’ Robin said immediately.  ‘I know what it looks like, but I _swear_ Slade didn’t do this—’

               ‘Shh!’  Bruce put his hand up, glancing back at the closed door before drawing a hard plastic chair up to Robin’s bed and sitting beside him.  ‘I know.  Slade actually helped us find you.’

               Robin stared, feeling like Bruce had smacked him in the head with a frying pan.  ‘You … worked with Slade?’

               Bruce raised his eyebrows.  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Dick.  I wasn’t happy with the idea.  And I was even less happy when he told me you two have been working together.’  He frowned.  ‘I’ve seen his résumé.’

               No response came; Robin could only swallow, his throat stuck.

               ‘I’m disappointed.’  Bruce sighed and slumped, scratching the back of his head.  ‘But I guess you were after some stupid thrill.’  He smiled faintly.  ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

               Robin’s voice came out barely above a whisper.  ‘Something like that.’

               Bruce’s face softened.  He sat back, folding his arms.  ‘Well, he saved your life,’ he said resentfully.  ‘Carried you right to me.’  His lip twisted in a grimace.  ‘I’m sorry, Dick, but I have to admit, after he handed you over … I let him get away.’

               ‘Oh,’ Robin breathed.  Some of the tightness gripping his chest eased, and he sank back into the pillows.  Bruce didn’t blame Slade.  He wasn’t going to hunt him down.

               For a moment, the room was quiet.  Robin could hear the hum of traffic outside—it sounded far below.  He wanted to get up and walk to the windows, pull down the blinds so he could see how high up they were.  He wondered what time it was.

               Bruce’s eyes narrowed.  ‘Oh?’

               ‘Yeah?’ Robin turned back to him.

               Folding his arms, Bruce leaned back in his chair, tilting his head.  ‘I suppose I just expected you to be a little more pissed off.’

               Robin’s heart thudded.  There was a reason they called Bruce—Batman—the world’s greatest detective.  Half the Justice League would swear blind Batman’s superpower was mind reading.  He could sense a lie in half a second, and an unspoken truth faster than that.

               Bruce’s stare could melt through walls.  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

               ‘Nothing!’ Robin said quickly, and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Because he _saw_ the way Bruce’s eyes widened, and he knew he’d only dug himself deeper.  ‘I just—’  He looked away, because holding Bruce’s gaze was making his eyes water.  ‘Like you said, Slade helped me out.  I owe him.’

               ‘You don’t owe Slade for doing one decent thing after a lifetime of remorseless crime,’ Bruce said.

               Robin hunched, shooting Bruce a brief glare.  ‘It’s not the first time he’s saved my life.’

               Bruce went still; the patient kind of stillness he used when he knew a suspect wasn’t done talking, but also that any more questions might make them clam up completely.

               _Suspect._   Robin guessed he was suspect.  The way his body ached, the half-numbed pain in his chest, the fact that Jason’s scarred face loomed out of the darkness behind his eyes.  It was all his fault.  And Bruce knew it.  Robin could feel it, in his stare.

               _He knows I’ve done something wrong._   Robin ground his jaw.  What else did Bruce already know?

               But Bruce still didn’t move, and didn’t question, and even though Robin knew it was all part of the game, he couldn’t bear it anymore.

               ‘It was the day I got back from Jason’s funeral,’ he murmured.  ‘I didn’t want to be with the team, so I went out alone.  I heard some muggers.  Thought it’d be easy.’  He let out a slow breath.  He hadn’t told anyone this.  Hadn’t even told the Titans, the day it happened.  ‘I was wrong.’

               _Tarmac pressing into his face, the slam of boots against his ribs, his breath huffing from his body over and over until his lungs screamed for air._

               ‘They were a bunch of punks with no powers, but they got me on the floor,’ Robin growled.  ‘And once I was down, I couldn’t get back up.’

               ‘And Slade saved you,’ Bruce said.

               ‘More than that.’  Robin swallowed.  ‘When he showed up, I got upright.  I was fighting again.  But then …’

               _I’m not going to die here like Jason._

               ‘I got my hands around a guy’s throat.’

               _The sound of him spluttering.  The way that sound grew quiet, turned into a high-pitched, desperate wheeze.  The way his arm beat against Robin’s, growing feeble.  And Robin just gripped tighter.  Until the hand on his shoulder—_

               ‘Slade pulled me off him,’ Robin said.  ‘I was gonna kill him.  I wasn’t even thinking about it.  All I could think was if I let go, I’d wind up back on the ground.’  He pushed his hands back through his hair—it felt so weird, limp without the gel to keep it sticking up.  ‘If not for Slade, I’d be a murderer.’

               Bruce was quiet again.  But this was a different sort of quiet.  After so many years in Bruce’s company, Robin could practically hear the engines roaring in Bruce’s brain.  He might as well have had smoke pouring from his ears.  After a moment, Bruce stood smoothly, and paced across the room.  Robin sank back into his pillows, and tried to ignore Bruce’s footsteps, and the way he was tapping his knuckle against his chin.

               But he couldn’t ignore the way Bruce’s gaze flashed to the place on Robin’s chest where the brand still ached—a constant, warm, throbbing pain.  Or the way his frown immediately deepened.

               ‘The killer’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?’ Bruce finally said.

               Robin closed his eyes.  ‘No.’

               ‘The killer’s branded all his victims with Slade’s symbol and dressed them as you.  When I saw it in Gotham, I thought it was a taunt for me.  But it’s not, is it?  He’s taunting you.  He’s _after_ you.  So why … ?’

               ‘Dad, stop.’  Robin’s chest hurt.  And it wasn’t just the brand.  He couldn’t breathe.

               ‘I’m trying to help you, Dick.’  Staring hard into Robin’s face, Bruce came and sat on the end of the bed.  ‘Why is the killer making this connection between the two of you?  Because you’ve been working together?’

               Robin’s heart thudded, right up in his throat.  He pulled his knees in closer to his chest.  ‘Dad.  _Stop._ ’

               Bruce wrinkled his nose.  ‘But that’s not …’

               He stopped.  And his gaze wandered over Robin’s hands, and his drawn-up legs, and his tight, bloodless face.  And Robin barely had a second to wonder how much the doctors had told Bruce—how much they had ascertained from whatever mess was left on his stomach, and whatever bruises might be pressed down his body—before Bruce straightened, his eyes glazing.

               ‘Tell me you’re not,’ he whispered.

               Robin couldn’t move.  ‘Not what?’

               Bruce’s gaze was unfocused, wavering around Robin.  ‘Tell me you’re not sleeping with Slade.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely editor, Mana! x


	28. Chapter 28

For a moment, it sounded to Robin like the entire hospital was crashing down.  He could hear it.  Hear the bricks cracking and crashing over each other.  Hear people screaming, running, panicking.  He could hear the world ending.

               But then he blinked, and the room was still there, and still quiet.  And Bruce was still looking at him.

               And he couldn’t speak.  Couldn’t muster even a whisper.

               ‘I’m going to kill him.’  Bruce spoke very softly, like someone only half-awake.

               Robin jolted.  ‘No.’

               But Bruce was already turning, heading for the door.  Robin kicked down his blankets and lurched out of bed—and crumpled instantly.  Whatever painkillers they’d given him had leeched the strength right out of him.  He felt drunk, the room spinning.  The IV tugged on the back of his hand, and Robin grabbed the edge of the bed to drag himself up.  Snatching the thin metal pole of the IV stand, he staggered after Bruce, catching the back of his jacket just as Bruce’s hand touched the door.

               ‘Dad, stop, _don’t!_ ’

               Bruce whirled, grabbing him by the shoulders.  His face was grey.  ‘What Slade has done to you—’

               ‘No!’  Robin peeled Bruce’s hands off.  He could barely hear himself over his own rushing heartbeat.  ‘Slade hasn’t _done_ anything to me.’  His legs wobbled— _stupid painkillers_ —and Bruce caught him under the arm.  ‘Just listen, please, just listen to me, don’t go after him, please—’

               Bruce looped his arm further under Robin’s.  ‘OK Dick, I’m not going anywhere.’  He glanced at the door.  ‘Yet.’

               ‘ _Dad._ ’

               ‘OK, OK, I’m listening.  Come on, get back in bed.’

               Sitting back on the bed, Robin pushed his IV stand away and met Bruce’s thunderous gaze.

               ‘He’s a _villain_ ,’ Bruce said, instantly on the offensive.

               ‘So is Catwoman,’ Robin snapped.

               ‘Selina and I are consenting adults—’  Bruce stopped, face darkening.  ‘How do you know about that?’

               Robin arched his eyebrow, dead pan.  ‘You think I never noticed you sneaking women in at night?’  He snorted.  ‘Me and Alfred used to rate them out of ten.’

               Narrowing his eyes, Bruce took a small step back.  ‘The fact remains that Selina and I are _adults_.  Slade is twice your age.  At least.’

               Robin tried not to shrink.  He ground his teeth, letting his heart pump fast, because it was easier to be angry.  Angry and defensive meant the shame couldn’t touch him.  ‘I’m seventeen.  The age of consent in Gotham is sixteen.’

               ‘We’re not in Gotham,’ Bruce shot back.  ‘The age of consent here is eighteen.  Which makes Slade’s actions _criminal_.’

               Robin snorted, because as if Slade was going to care about committing one more crime on top of all the others.  But he said,  ‘My birthday’s in two weeks.  You think in two weeks, I’m gonna suddenly change my mind?’

               Bruce’s face was like dark clouds covering a storm.  ‘I think if Slade truly cared about you, he could’ve waited two weeks.’

               ‘I don’t give a shit if Slade cares about me!’  Robin slammed his hand on the edge of the bed, and hated the way the mattress absorbed the blow silently.  He wanted to hit something.  _Really_ hit something.  ‘You think I don’t know what he is?  I’ve known Slade longer than you have!’

               ‘He’s manipulating you, and controlling you, and you can’t even see it!’  Bruce’s hands were clenched in white fists at his hips, his face going scarlet.  But behind the rage, Robin could see the look in his eyes.  That wide-eyed terror Robin only ever saw when he or Jason did something stupid.  When they nearly got themselves killed, and Bruce had to cover his bone-shaking terror with rage.

_‘Bruce only ever blows up like that when he’s scared …’_

               Robin swallowed.  He tightened his own hands into fists—they felt so naked without his gloves—and loosened them, letting out a sigh.  He tried to keep his voice low and reasonable.  ‘Slade’s never forced me to do anything, Dad.’  And there it was—that rushing, sickening, tumbling feeling of shame.  His stomach went so tight he might’ve been sick, if there was anything in him to throw up.  ‘He didn’t hurt me, or rape me—’  He voice broke off.  He couldn’t look up.  Instead, he closed his eyes, taking a breath and forcing himself to keep talking, because if he didn’t, Bruce might still rush out and hunt Slade down.  And then … no Slade, no Blüdhaven, no future outside the crippling empty feeling of sitting in Titan’s Tower, wondering if he’d always felt this way and just never noticed it, because he couldn’t remember anything else.  ‘I wanted to.’

               Bruce didn’t move for a long moment, and although Robin didn’t look up, he could feel his stare boring into the back of his neck.  Then, finally, Bruce sat.  Or rather, he fell into the chair at Robin’s bedside, burying his face in his hands.

               Slowly, finally, he lowered them, letting out a sigh.  ‘I didn’t just mean the sex, Dick.’  He grimaced, but spoke softly, sounding as though he was having to force every word with as much difficulty as Robin.  ‘You’re telling me Slade’s never made you do anything—not a single thing—that made you uncomfortable?  Nothing you didn’t want to do?’

               Robin tensed.

_The black material clenched tight in his fist.  ‘I am not wearing my damn apprentice clothes!’_

               Bruce didn’t seem to notice.  ‘Nothing that ever forced you to be reliant on him?’

_Slade’s grip, tight on his wrist as he went to peel the mask off.  ‘It’s not a mask.  It’s a blindfold …’_

               ‘Nothing to pull you away from your friends?’

_Slade drawing him in across the bed, Robin’s heart racing because of course he couldn’t leave the tower and live with Slade, that was ridiculous.  But Slade’s voice was smooth and glad.  ‘It’s an excellent idea …’_

               Robin didn’t speak.  He couldn’t.  He felt like he was being eaten alive from the inside.  It wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  Bruce just didn’t understand.  He was panicking, because of course he’d panic—anyone would panic if they found out their son was sleeping with a man like Slade.  He was making complicated things look way too simple.

               ‘Slade wants what he’s always wanted,’ Bruce sighed, elbows on his knees, back hunched.  ‘He wants you, standing right there next to him, doing whatever he tells you.’

               ‘No,’ Robin croaked.  ‘That’s not—’

_‘Call me Master …’_

               He shuddered, and broke off.

               ‘It’s just this time, Slade was smart about it,’ Bruce said.  ‘He waited until you were vulnerable, and he gave you what you wanted so you’d feel like you owed him.  And then he gave you something more, and you owed him a little more.  Until you trusted him, and you started making excuses for him.  Until you started thinking what he wanted was actually what you wanted.’  Bruce spread his hands.  ‘Dick, when we spoke before, you were ready to drop your friends—your entire life—and run off with him.  Can’t you see how insane that is?’

               The shame was gone, but that was mostly because Robin didn’t feel anything anymore.  He felt like paper.  Like he was emptied out.  The only thing worth being alive for, and it was all some manipulation tactic?

               No.  He didn’t believe it.

               Except … he kind of did.

               It didn’t even hurt.  It should’ve hurt.  But it was as if, deep down, he’d always known this was coming, and the sharp edges were already worn away.

               Bruce sat up, shaking his head.  ‘You know, I expected this kind of crap from Jason, but you were always so sensible.’

               It was like a punch straight to the chest.  The pain returned, hard and blinding, enough for him to wish for that numbness back.  Robin hunched, the breath going out of him.  _Perfect fucking Dick Grayson—the perfect little prodigy—fucking whore—_

               He couldn’t stop Jason’s voice in his head.

               And he couldn’t stop the sob that burst out of him.

               He lowered his head, hands crawling up into his hair so he could bury his face in his forearms.  His shoulders shook and his chest heaved, his face burning with shame.  He hadn’t cried like this since he was small.  He’d broken bones, lost friends, seen the sky blacken the world burn—and he hadn’t once cried like this.

               And now he couldn’t stop.

               He heard Bruce shift, and hunched lower, waiting for the next blow.  Whatever Bruce said, it couldn’t be worse than this.

But Bruce pulled him into a hug.

               ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’  There was a note of panic in his tone.  His chin moved against the top of Robin’s head, and he pulled Robin close against his chest.  ‘I’ve got you.  I’m sorry.’

               ‘He was my brother,’ Robin choked.  ‘I should have protected him.  He was my brother and I let him die—’

               ‘No, no, no, no.’  Bruce loosed his grip for just a moment, as if trying to look down at him, but then only held him tighter.  ‘How could you blame yourself?  It wasn’t your fault.’

               Robin curled his knees in closer, wishing he could curl up small enough to disappear.  ‘I should never have left Gotham.’  He had to force every word out, gasping between tears.  ‘If I’d stayed I could’ve helped.  I could’ve stopped him.’

               ‘No—’

               ‘I could’ve tried!’ Robin burst.  ‘I could’ve just _been there._ That’s what a big brother is meant to do!  And instead I was miles away, eating pizza and watching TV and being _useless_ while Jason _died!_ ’

               Bruce was quiet for a long time, just holding Robin until the tears subsided.  Then he rubbed Robin’s back while Robin brushed tears off his face roughly, sniffing.  When Robin raised his head, Bruce slowly let him go.  Reaching for Robin’s bedside table, Bruce picked up a box of tissues and set them gently in Robin’s lap.

               ‘Thanks,’ Robin muttered.  He felt drained, as if someone had stuck a needle in him and sucked the life out.  His head pounded, right at the base of his skull, and just beneath his eyes.  Yanking out several tissues, he cleared his face, then scrunched them into a ball.

               Bruce hovered for a moment, and then sat back on his plastic chair.  ‘I had no idea you blamed yourself like this.’

               Robin shrugged miserably.

               ‘It’s not your fault.’  Bruce sighed.  ‘If anything, Jason would blame me.’

               ‘He doesn’t blame you,’ Robin croaked, staring at his hands.

               ‘No, I’m sure—’  Bruce stopped abruptly.  ‘What did you say?’

               Robin’s hands shook in his lap.  But he was already plummeting.  Might as well hit the bottom.  ‘Jason doesn’t blame you.’  With an enormous effort, he raised his head and looked at Bruce.  He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper.  ‘But he hates me.’

               Bruce’s face went grey.  For a moment, he had no expression, none at all.  And then his brow knitted, his mouth turning down in a horrified stare.  ‘Dick … what are you saying?’

               Another sob rose in Robin’s throat, and he swallowed it down.  He touched his chest, fingers not quite brushing the bandages over his burn.  Bruce glanced down, noticing the touch, and his eyes widened.

               Robin swallowed, lowering his hand.

               ‘The killer.  It was … it’s Jason.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely editor Mana, and to all my kind commenters. You seriously bring a massive, goofy grin to my face every time. <3


	29. Chapter 29

Bruce stared, his face grey.  ‘That’s not possible.’

               ‘I know.’  Robin curled his legs in.  He was so tired.  He wanted to stop talking.  To lie down and sleep, and never have to wake up.  But he never slept, and Bruce was still staring at him.  ‘I saw his face.  It was … it was burned.’  His throat closed up.  ‘He wanted to kill me, after what I’ve done.’

               He let his hand come up near the brand on his chest again.  Near that constant burn.  But he dropped it without touching.  _I’ll have that on me for the rest of my life.  I’ll never escape it._

               Bruce shook his head.  ‘We buried Jason.’

               ‘I know, but …’ Robin winced.  ‘I borrowed some of Raven’s books.’

               Bruce straightened.  ‘She told me.  You mean it _worked_?’

               Robin shrugged miserably.  No.  No, it hadn’t worked.  Because what he’d wanted was his brother back, alive and safe and happy.  And what he’d got was …

               _‘You filthy fucking slut …’_

               ‘It brought Jason back,’ he croaked, finally, because that wasn’t a lie.

               ‘It didn’t, actually.’

               Robin jolted at the new voice in the doorway—and only the IV in his hand kept him from leaping off the bed and crashing through the window.  He reached to snatch it out, but Bruce set his larger hand over Robin’s, covering the IV line.  The person in the doorway winced.

               Raven.

               She slipped through the door and closed it behind her.  She looked bizarre, and it was a moment before Robin realised why.  Her clothes.  She wore black jeans and a grey jumper, her hair stuffed up into a dark beanie to hide its colour.  Even her face seemed different, as if she’d hidden her complexion with a dusting of make-up.

               Her face sagged at Robin’s wide-eyed stare, and she didn’t come any closer.  Leaning against the door, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Robin.  We all are.’

               He ignored her.  ‘What do you mean about Jason?’  He clenched his fist under Bruce’s hand.  ‘It was him.  I saw him.’

               ‘It can’t have been,’ Raven said softly.  ‘Do you remember that gem I gave you, to put on Jason’s grave?’

               Robin nodded tightly.  ‘You said it would protect him.’

               ‘Yes …’  Raven glanced down.

               ‘You lied?’  Robin scowled.

               He didn’t know what he’d expected.  Of course she lied.  He couldn’t trust her.  He couldn’t trust _anybody_.  Not the Titans, not Bruce, not …

               Not Slade.

               ‘No!  No, I didn’t lie,’ Raven said quickly.  ‘The gem _does_ protect Jason.  But … when you set it on Jason’s grave, you said it flashed.’

               Robin nodded tightly.

               ‘Which means it bonded to him.  To whatever trace is left of his soul after he died.’  Raven spread her hands.  ‘But we looked at the police files, and the killer was already around _before_ you went to Gotham.  If he was Jason, that grave would’ve been empty.  There’d have been nothing to bond to.’

               Robin glared.  ‘What are you saying?’

               Raven gave a tiny, helpless shrug.  ‘Jason is still there.’  Her mouth pinched, her shoulders coming up as she shrank against the door.  ‘I’m really sorry, Robin.  Jason … he’s still gone.’

               Robin could feel his heart thudding in his throat.  Everything felt too still, but the idea of standing up—of moving at all—made his head spin.  ‘But he—he looked like Jason.  He sounded like Jason.  He knew things—’

               Things Jason … _couldn’t_ know.

               Because sure, Jason could’ve followed Robin and found out he was working with Slade.  That was easy.  But he couldn’t have been in Slade’s apartment.  He couldn’t have seen them …

And he knew Robin’s thoughts—his fantasies—even before that.  He knew the night he snuck into Wayne Manor—

               _‘I should’ve known this was what you wanted.  Slut.’_

               The first victim, thirteen-year-old Thomas Newton, died long before Robin ever had sex with Slade.  Hell, that murder only propelled him towards Slade faster.  As if the killer wanted them together.  Wanted something to torture Robin with.

               But if the killer wasn’t Jason …

               Robin’s mind flew back to his own dark bedroom.  To the smell of Raven’s black candles burning, and the words he’d learned by rote.  The voice, speaking softly just behind his head as Jason’s face formed in the smoke.

               And the way he was chased away when Raven burst in.  And what she said, after Robin screamed at her—

               _‘You can’t see like I can … Worse things than the dead can come through a gateway like that.’_

               Words repeated by Madame Zara, who turned him from her house for touching black magic.

               Raven thought he was possessed.  And Raven knew demons.  She knew evil.

               But Raven was wrong …

               ‘It wasn’t Jason,’ Robin breathed.  ‘It was a demon.’

               Bruce straightened in his chair.  By the door, Raven flinched as Robin’s eyes flicked up to meet hers.

               ‘Wasn’t it?’ he said.

               Raven hesitated, and then dug in her back pocket, drawing out a folded piece of paper.  She pushed off the door and stepped closer, her paces tiny.  Because just a minute ago, if she’d come this close, Robin would’ve either run or attacked.  But right now, his heart was thundering, his chest seeming to expand as he took it in.

_It wasn’t Jason._

               Raven stretched out her arm, still some distance from Robin, and offered the paper. He leaned over and took it, unfolding it feverishly. It felt less like paper than parchment, yellow and burnt, the corners crumpled and one edge torn.  Emblazoned along the top in old, faded print were the words:

 

_DAEMON METUS_

 

               The rest of the page was in Latin, the letters tiny and cramped.  A woodcut at the bottom right corner of the page showed a twisted creature rising from flames, its face a ruin of scars, horns curving back from its forehead.  Tiny figures cowered beneath it.

               Robin looked up at Raven.  ‘What does it say?’

               ‘It’s a kind of demon,’ Raven said.  ‘A fear demon.’

               Frowning, Robin turned back to the picture.  ‘Jason didn’t look like this.’  His jaw tightened.  ‘He had ... scars, but not ...’

               ‘It’s a shape changer,’ Raven said. ‘It can look like whatever is most frightening to its victim.  Then it feeds on their fear.  It paralyses them, so they can’t run—’

               ‘And kills them,’ Robin finished.  He’d seen enough evidence of that.

               But Raven folded her arms, hugging her elbows under her cloak.  ‘Actually, once it gets its victim ... it possesses them.’

               Robin’s head snapped up.  ‘It killed Thomas, and Drake and Britney—’

               ‘They weren’t its target.  They were just a means to an end.’  Raven glanced at Bruce, and took a deep breath, shifting another step back.  ‘Its real target was the person who summoned it.  Its target was you.’

               Robin tensed, vision tunnelling.  _Painful, aching, stabbing cold curling deep into his chest, tearing through his thoughts._   Again he reached for the IV, but Bruce tightened his grip.  The blood flooded from Robin’s face.  ‘I’m not possessed!’

               Raven brought her hands up quickly.  ‘I know!  That—that was a mistake.  I know you aren’t.’

               Still, Robin glared at her, his legs tensed and ready to run. But Bruce’s steady hand over his kept him rooted—not holding him down, but feeling like a lifeline. Bruce wouldn’t let her hurt him … right?

_I wish Slade was here._

               Robin cast out the thought instantly, along with the pang in his chest.  He thought he could trust Slade.  Despite everything, Robin really thought ...

               ‘So what’s going on?’ he said, eyes flicking from Raven to Bruce and back.

               ‘Well, it would have possessed you.’  Raven bit her lip.  ‘If …’

               ‘If Slade hadn’t saved you,’ Bruce finished bitterly.  It seemed any good opinion he might’ve had when Slade brought Robin to him was now shattered.

               Robin glanced between them.  ‘So I’m safe?’

               ‘No!’  Raven started forwards, but then apparently restrained herself.  ‘Robin, the demon is coming back.  He won’t stop until he’s got you.’

               A chill swept over Robin’s skin.  He shivered, looking at Bruce, who stared back, grey and apologetic.  Before Robin could stop the thought, Slade’s voice rang through his head.  _Robin ... don’t tell me you’re afraid._  Robin clenched his jaw.  Of course he was afraid.  That thing—that monster—was wearing Jason’s face to torment him.  It could read his mind, play on his fears.  And it had him.  It _had_ him, just like those lowlifes in the alley had him.  If not for Slade, he’d be dead twice over.

 _It’s just another opponent, Robin,_ Slade said in his head.  _Fight it like an opponent._

               And … and it wasn’t Jason.

_It wasn’t Jason._

               Everything felt light.  Robin thought, if Bruce let go of his hand, he might float.

               Robin took a shaky breath.  ‘So how do we beat it?’

               Raven didn’t answer, but her look of genuine pain was all Robin needed.  He clenched his fist under Bruce’s hand.

               ‘We have to exorcise it, don’t we?’

               A miniscule nod.

               Heart pounding, Robin sat up.  His throat was stuck tight with fear, his skin tingling.  ‘I want to do it.’  As Raven looked up, he put up his hand.  ‘And I mean _I_ want to do it.  This is my mess.  My mistake.  I want to fix it.’

               ‘You’d have to invite it into your body,’ Raven said, eyes wide.  ‘You’d have to fight it by yourself.’

               Robin hesitated.  Then he managed a faint smile.  ‘Not quite all by myself.’

               She stared for a long moment before returning the expression, small and shy.  With a jolt, Robin remembered her as that tiny girl in a white cloak, staring up at him with eyes like saucers.  The little girl he’d carried through hell.

               And it didn’t make sense, because how could that little girl be the person who ripped through his body with black magic?  Who made his bones so cold he thought they’d never be warm again?

               But … but it did make sense.

               The first thing that little girl did when she saw him—was attack.  Sure, she wasn’t as powerful and it didn’t hurt.  But when Raven was scared, truly scared, she bared her teeth.

               It settled in his stomach like lead.  All those stares.  Wide eyes and knitted brows and bitten lips.  The way she was looking at him now.

               ‘You’re scared of me,’ Robin breathed.

               Raven started.  ‘No.’

               ‘Sure you are,’ Robin said.  ‘You’re just really good at hiding it.’

               Of course she was.  Raven wasn’t allowed feelings—not strong feelings, not anything that might compromise her control.  But no amount of meditating was going to change the fact she thought she was living with a demon.  A demon she was helpless to stop as it slowly destroyed her friend.

               He hadn’t considered what the other Titans were thinking for a long time.  It used to feel so natural.  Starfire used to say it made him a good leader.  But lately …

               ‘I’m not possessed,’ Robin said.  And this time, his tone was completely different.  Not defensive.  Not scared.  ‘Raven, it’s OK.’

               She opened her mouth to speak.  And choked.  And burst into tears.

               ‘Woah, hey!’ Robin lurched halfway to his feet, but stopped as shadows whipped around her.  ‘Hey, Raven, it’s OK.’

               Bruce was standing in a blink, but Raven breathed deeply, her shoulders shaking, relaxing.

               ‘You shouldn’t be comforting me,’ she croaked.  ‘After everything that’s happened to you.  And I didn’t help at all.  I made everything worse—I’m so sorry.  I just—I never knew what to do.  I’m not Starfire, I can’t _do_ this stuff.  I don’t know how to help.’

               Starfire’s name stung, but Robin swallowed and pushed past it.  Because he hadn't considered, until now, that the others missed her just as much as he did.  ‘Raven,’ he said quietly, ‘all I needed was my friends.’

               She hiccoughed softly.  Robin could still feel the stickiness of his own tears on his face, but he didn’t feel like crying so much anymore.  He felt emptied out, drained of a weight too heavy to carry.  He put his hand out.

               Raven glided over, and took his hand.  He squeezed her fingers.

               ‘I don’t deserve your forgiveness,’ she said.

               ‘Oh, I don’t forgive you yet.’  He smirked.  ‘First you gotta help me exorcise a demon.’

               She laughed weakly.

               Then he glanced over her shoulder at the door.  ‘D’you wanna let Cyborg and BB in?  I can almost hear them straining to listen out there.’

               Raven turned, but Bruce got to the door first.  As he pulled it open, Beast Boy tumbled forwards on his hands and knees, Cyborg tripping over him into the room.  They looked up at Robin sheepishly.

               ‘I’ll be just outside,’ Bruce murmured, but he waited for Robin’s nod before slipping out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

               ‘Uh,’ Beast Boy raised a hand in greeting, ‘hi.’

               Robin arched an eyebrow, and found to his surprise that he was smiling.  ‘Hi.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive squishy hugs to my lovely editor Mana! x


	30. Chapter 30

Robin flicked his communicator open.  Closed.  Open.  Closed.

               He hadn’t been surprised last night, when he was half-asleep under the blankets and breathing softly, to hear Bruce quietly pick the communicator off his bedside table.  His stomach dropped, but what did he expect?  Bruce was smart.  He probably gave Robin his communicator back for exactly this purpose.  To monitor him.  To check he wasn’t messaging Slade.

               He wasn’t, but it stung nonetheless.  Slade may not have been a hero, but hadn’t he done enough to deserve a thank you?

               Robin knew the sound of his communicator opening.  The soft whoosh and click.  He could hear it now.  Click-open.  Click-closed.  Click-open.

               And he knew that, after watching over Robin in silence for a whole minute, Bruce had set the communicator down without opening it.

               Stretching out his legs, Robin leaned back into the pillows.  Bruce had bought him t-shirts and comfy sweatpants to make his hospital stay more comfortable, but after six days Robin still felt naked without his uniform.  Without Slade’s armour.

               ‘Dick.’  Bruce looked up over his phone from across the room.

               Robin sat up.  ‘Hmm?’

               Bruce glanced at Robin’s rapidly moving hands, just as the increasingly fast _click-click, click-click, click-click_ of his communicator ended in a tiny, distressed crunch.

               Cursing, Robin hunched over his communicator, now bent backwards on its hinge.  ‘Damn it.  Cyborg’s gonna kill me.’

               A hand settled on his shoulder.  He jumped—but it was just Bruce.  Even out of cape and cowl, he moved like a shadow.

               ‘We don’t have to do this today.’

               Robin’s stomach tightened.  ‘I want to.’

               ‘We can wait until we’re back home.’

               ‘I don’t want this demon in Wayne Manor again.’  Robin shuddered.  ‘Or the Tower.’

               _He_ didn’t want to be in Titan’s Tower.  Not yet.  It would still feel too much like walking into a prison.  His own personal Arkham Asylum.

               ‘Raven says she can confine the demon to this room,’ Robin said.  ‘No one else will get hurt.’

               Bruce looked disbelieving—but Robin ignored him.  His thumb moved instinctively over the communicator, but instead of snapping open, it now flapped dejectedly on its broken hinge.  Robin set it on the bedside table.

               A shadow pooled across the floor.

               Bruce pocketed his phone.  ‘About time.’

               Robin tensed, fighting back the animal urge to run as Raven rose up out of her portal, eyes burning white.  Gritting his teeth, Robin forced himself to relax.  He’d seen Raven appear from a thousand portals before.  Was he seriously now going to jump at every shadow in her presence?

               He could practically hear Slade laughing at him.

               Cyborg and Beast Boy came up beside Raven, as if she were dragging them behind her.  As Raven’s eyes darkened and her expression softened, the portal shrank away under her cloak.

               With his usual broad grin, Beast Boy bounded forward and leaped on the end of Robin’s bed.  He grabbed Robin in a choking hug.  ‘You ready to totally kick some demon butt?’

               Bruce inched closer, but Robin just grinned and dug his knuckle into Beast Boy’s ribs.  Beast Boy yelped, scrambling back in monkey-form.  Raven stretched out an arm to catch him as he leaped at her.  She scratched his fur absently as he settled on her shoulder.

               ‘How are you feeling?’  Raven’s eyes flicked to Robin’s chest.

               Robin shrugged.  ‘Like I wanna punch the bastard that did this to me right in his smug demon face.’

               Cyborg grinned.  ‘That’s the Robin every villain in Jump knows and fears!’

               Sharing his grin, Robin stood, and tried to ignore the twinge of cold in his stomach.   ‘Let’s start.’

               The chalk circle didn’t take as long to draw this time.  After all, he’d had practice.  As he stood, brushing off his hands, a cold wash spread over his body, briefly filling the room.  He shuddered, glancing up at Raven, who sat floating cross-legged in the air.

               She opened one eye.  ‘The room is protected.’

               Robin nodded, and stepped inside the circle.

               He’d made it bigger this time.  He figured if he was going to have to wrestle with a demon, he wanted room to move.

               Raven unfolded her legs and stepped closer.  ‘Don’t step out of the circle.’  She twirled her hand and a candle appeared in her palm, already lit.  Setting it down in front of Robin, at the edge of the circle, she summoned another.  ‘Whatever the demon says, whatever it threatens, whatever it offers, don’t stop fighting.’  Another candle went down, and another.  ‘I’ll stay connected to your mind.  If you need me to pull you out …’

               Taking a deep breath, Robin nodded again.  His throat was tight.

               ‘You have until the last candle goes out.’

               _Pinned to the table, unable to move, hands trembling as he fought to raise them._

               Not this time.  This time, he was in control.

               ‘I’ll be fine.’  Robin gave her a thin smile, despite the ache in his stomach.  He glanced at the door.  He’d thought … maybe Slade would come.

               _Stupid._   He hadn’t contacted Slade.  Hadn’t thanked him.  Hadn’t even told him this was happening.  But some paranoid little part of him assumed Slade was tracking the hospital security feed, and would burst in regardless.

               _He only wanted an apprentice.  He_ always _only wanted an apprentice._

               Robin straightened his back.  Bruce stared at him, wearing his sternest Batman face.  Raven’s brow was knitted, and Beast Boy and Cyborg were wide-eyed behind her.

               ‘I’m ready,’ Robin said.

               Raven hesitated a moment longer, then set the final candle down.

               It flared, and the room went black.

               Bruce and the Titans were grey shadows around him.  Raven settled cross-legged on the floor right in front of him, cloak spilling around her.  Bruce sat on his right and Beast Boy on his left, Cyborg treading carefully around them to guard Robin’s back.  The candles blazed, bright white beacons.

               A pressure touched Robin’s forehead.

 _Robin?_   It was Raven’s voice.

               He let out a slow breath.  _I can hear you._

               The pressure tightened, and suddenly it wasn’t Raven in front of Robin.

               It was Jason.

               He stood tall, black uniform smudged with dirt, torn and showing burned skin underneath.  He curled his lip back over his teeth—

               And lunged.

               But Robin rolled aside, coming up just at the edge of the circle.  _Raven?_

_I’m here._

               Robin lashed out, catching Jason’s knee.  His heart hammered as Jason hit the floor.

               Jason turned over, teeth bared.  ‘Been missing your brother, Dick?’

               ‘You’re not Jason,’ Dick snarled.  ‘You’re just some monster.’

               ‘I’m what Jason would be, if he could be here.’  Jason—no, Robin refused to even _think_ of him by that name.  The _demon_ staggered up, swaying.  His mouth twisted in that grimace-grin.  ‘He always hated you.’

               _Don’t listen to him, Robin._   Raven’s voice was soft but firm, an anchor in the darkness.

               ‘You think that witch of yours is the only one who can read your thoughts?’ the demon sneered.  ‘I’m in your head, Dick.  I know everything Jason ever said to you.  I know him better than you do.’  He stepped closer, and Robin shifted sideways out of his reach, skin crawling at the memory of his oily touch.  ‘You know he hated you.’

               Robin set his feet in a fighting stance, refusing to back off any further.  ‘Liar.’

               ‘You let him die.’

               ‘No.’  It felt like a bullet in Robin’s chest, but he held firm.  ‘The Joker murdered him.  It’s no one’s fault but his.  Not mine, not Bruce’s.  You can’t make me feel guilty anymore.’

               The demon’s melted eyes slipped down to Robin’s chest.  The scar was hidden under his t-shirt and bandages, but that greasy look seemed to see right through them.  ‘You sold yourself to Slade.  Jason would be ashamed.’

               It felt like he’d swallowed a bucket of oil.  Robin’s throat tightened and his stomach clenched.  He closed his shaking hands into fists.  ‘You know what the real Jason would’ve done, if he found out about Slade?’  He advanced a step, teeth gritted.  He was acutely aware of Raven’s touch on his mind.  It was light—she wasn’t probing—but she could hear what he said.  ‘He’d have _laughed_.  The first Robin, the Boy Wonder, Batman’s prodigy, with a villain?  Jason would’ve laughed himself _sick_.  He didn’t give a shit about reputations or being the better person.  The only person here my brother would’ve hated is you.’

               With a flicker, the first candle went out.

               Robin lunged.

               His fist collided with the side of the demon’s face, sending him sprawling.  The demon rolled over—

               And suddenly those teeth were no longer broken.  His skin was smooth and unscarred.  And he was older, his jawline stronger, his cheekbones wider, his eyes deeper set.

               Bruce Wayne stared up at him with utmost loathing.

               Robin staggered back.  ‘What—but—’

               Bruce rose smoothly to his feet, every inch the towering dark figure petty criminals in Gotham feared.  He stepped closer and Robin backed off, glancing behind him.  The edge of the circle was only a step away.

               It felt like the venom was flooding Robin’s body again.  He couldn’t move.  His throat was tight.  His heart thumped, heavy and hard.

               Raven’s voice cut through the shadows, warm and solid.  _He’s not really Bruce.  He’s a shape changer.  You can still fight him, Robin!_

‘Jason may not hate you,’ the demon-Bruce growled, ‘but I can’t stand the sight of you.’

               Robin stiffened, closing his fists.  ‘Shut up.’

               The demon stepped closer and Robin slipped sideways.  They prowled around each other, circling, each waiting for the other to strike first.

               ‘You made your choice.’  The demon’s smooth baritone matched Bruce’s exactly.  ‘And your choice was Slade.  Your choice was evil.’  He straightened.  ‘They don’t know, do they?  Your friends.  You haven’t told them the truth.’

               Robin froze.  His heart thudded in his ears.  _No._

               ‘And you won’t tell them, will you?’  The demon flashed its teeth in a smirk, and they weren’t Bruce’s teeth.  They were sharp.  ‘Because they would spit on you, if they knew.’

               ‘Don’t,’ Robin hissed.

               _Robin, it’s OK,_ Raven said.  _We’re on your side._

               ‘It’s OK, Robin.  I’ll tell them for you.’  The demon straightened.  ‘I’ll tell them how you fucked Slade—’

               With a scream, Robin raced in, fists swinging.  He could feel something sharp down the line of his connection with Raven.  Shock.  He punched, and punched again, and the demon dodged easily, pushing his fists aside.  The pressure on Robin’s forehead pulsed, like a hand grasping and not quite making contact.  Robin snapped up a kick, but the demon slipped away and he overbalanced, tumbling forward.  He dropped and rolled, springing back up, mouth dry.

               He didn’t see the demon’s kick until it was too late.  Just felt a crack against the side of his head.

               He dropped.

               The ground rolled beneath him and he groaned, pushing himself up.  His head thumped.  He couldn’t even tell where the demon hit him.  It hurt all over.  And—and—

               The pressure on his forehead was gone.

               Raven was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I am SUPER sorry for the late update! Next chapter's on Sunday as usual!
> 
> Hugs to my lovely editor Mana! x


	31. Chapter 31

As Robin pushed himself up on his hands and knees, he tried to reach out with his mind, the way Raven could.  But he didn’t have Raven’s powers.  He couldn’t reach outside his own head.  And she wasn’t there.

               He was alone.

               Alone, with the demon.

               The second candle flickered, and went out.

               ‘Isn’t that better?’  Polished black shoes stepped into view as the demon drew closer.  ‘It was feeling pretty crowded with three of us in here.’  He smirked as Robin got to his feet, but didn’t try to kick him down again.  ‘I don’t think she liked hearing the truth.’

               Robin’s stomach tightened.  ‘She’ll forgive me.’

               The demon tilted its head.  ‘You sure about that?  Because right now … she isn’t coming back to help you.’

               Robin glanced around, looking for Raven’s grey shadow beyond the circle.  He could see her, barely.  But he couldn’t feel her touch on his mind.

               _Raven?_

               Nothing.

               A shadow passed over the demon’s face.  Then, rocking back on its heels, it leaped at Robin again.

               Except it had changed it again.  It wasn’t Bruce Wayne flying at him, but a boy—a head shorter than Robin, face pale, eyes black.  Robin recognised him instantly.  _You’ve seen bodies before._   His last thought before the police peeled the tarp back.

               Thomas Newton.

               He seized Robin’s t-shirt in both hands.  ‘You got me killed, Robin.  It’s your fault I’m dead.’

               Cold spread through Robin’s body like claws digging in.  He tried to tug himself away, but the demon clung on with fierce little hands, his face changing.  He was Thomas.  He was Drake.  He was Britney.  Their voices echoed together, a ghostly chorus.

               ‘You summoned the demon.  You did this to us!’

               ‘No,’ Robin croaked.  ‘No, I didn’t kill anyone.  _You_ killed them!’

               It was Britney now, her voice alone, staring up at him through her hacked-up hair with wide, terrified eyes.  ‘It hurt so bad, Robin.  I just wanted to know you, and because of you I died in so much pain …’

               Robin clenched his jaw so hard his teeth creaked.  He didn’t have Raven.  But he could do this.  _Don’t stop fighting._

               ‘I didn’t murder those kids.’  He took the demon’s wrists, twisting its hands loose.  ‘You did.  And you’re gonna pay.’

               With a soft hiss, the third candle went out.

               The demon drew back, swiping a hand over its face.  Shadows swirled and reformed and dozen times before settling on a large, familiar shape.  Robin expected it, but his chest tightened nonetheless.

               ‘Slade …’

               ‘Robin.’  The demon tilted its head, just the way Slade did when he talked.  He had no mask on and no patch over his eye, the scars livid on his skin, the glass eye filmy grey.  His real eye travelled slowly down, soaking up every inch of Robin.  ‘And I thought you’d learned to call me “Master”.’

               Robin choked.  ‘Stop.’

               The venom crept into his body again.  He fought it, wrestling against aching muscles, grinding his teeth, vision blurring.  His legs shook, and he dropped to his knees.  Setting his hand down, Robin tried to push himself up.

               But the demon planted his foot on Robin’s shoulder, and shoved him down.

               ‘No, Robin.’  It was the exact murmur the real Slade had used as he pressed Robin down into the bed.  ‘This is where I want you.  Grovelling at my feet.’

               With a snarl, Robin heaved past the weight of the venom, and shoved the demon’s foot away.  But the demon lunged, snatching Robin’s collar and dragging him close.  Robin dug his numb fingers uselessly into the demon’s arm.  He didn’t have the strength to prise him off.

               ‘You were so easy to use.’  The demon’s breath hit Robin’s face, and it was cold.  Dead.  ‘And you fell for it, every moment.’

               ‘No—’

               ‘Yes, Robin.’

               The demon slipped his other hand up under Robin’s t-shirt, tracing the bandages.  Robin cried out, bile rising in his throat.  It was like knives peeling back his skin.

               ‘Do you like it?’ the demon hissed.  ‘A little reminder, every day, that you sold your soul to a man who tossed you away.’

               Robin swung a punch.

               But the demon twitched aside, the movement impossibly fast.  It let Robin go, and Robin overreached, stumbling to correct himself.

               Robin dodged the first kick at his ankles, fumbling and sluggish, but the second landed.  Pain jolted up his leg and he slumped, landing heavy on his stomach.  His face slammed into the linoleum, inches from the fourth candle.

               Which flickered weakly.

               _No time, no time—_

               Robin dragged his knees under him, but something slammed into his belly and his bones melted.  He dropped, pain cascading through his stomach up into his chest, crushing his lungs.  He couldn’t breathe.

               He rolled onto his side, wheezing.  _Raven._   Could she hear him?  _Raven help._   Was she even listening?

               The demon grabbed his shoulder, pushing Robin down on his back.  ‘You’re nothing without me, Robin.’  Slade’s voice was hazy through the pounding of blood in Robin’s ears.  ‘You’d have been killed by second-rate thugs in a back alley if not for me.  You’d have died in that shed, branded and screaming, if not for me.’  He stepped over Robin’s waist and sat straddling him, his weight heavy on Robin’s hips.

               ‘Shut up,’ Robin ground out.  ‘You’re not Slade.’

               The crack of the demon’s hand across his face sent the room spinning.

               The demon leaned down, breathing in Robin’s ear.  ‘The real Slade isn’t coming.  I’m all you’ve got.  And I’m going to walk out of here in your body.  Your witch can’t stop me.  She’ll think I’m you, and you’ve made damn sure she’ll be too afraid to check.’  His lips brushed Robin’s ear.  ‘Thanks for that.’

               Robin gritted his teeth, trying to find breath in his crushed chest.  He threw a punch, but the demon swatted his fist away easily.

               The fourth candle grew dim.  Weakening.

               _No._

               The demon watched the candle with idle fascination before turning back to Robin, like a cat snapping its attention back to the twitching bird in its claws.  ‘Poor Robin.  Your friends can’t help you.  Your dad can’t help you.  And your lover won’t come for you.’  He closed his hand around Robin’s throat.  Robin bucked, gripping the demon’s wrist in both hands, letting out a choked wail.  ‘Shh,’ the demon murmured.  ‘Don’t you want to sleep?  Go to sleep, Dick.  Go to sleep like Jason.’

               Robin jerked and strained and beat at the demon’s arm, but damn it he was so weak.  It was more than the venom.  How hadn’t he noticed himself growing so thin … so brittle … so _tired_.

               His chest burned.  He needed air.

               _I’m not going to—I can’t—I won’t die here—_

               His vision blurred.  Raven, where was Raven?  Why wouldn’t she help?  He rolled his eyes, searching for her shadow.

               There.  Cross-legged, not moving.  Why wasn’t she moving?

               _Pull me out.  Raven, pull me out._

               Something touched his forehead, so light he might’ve imagined it.  An instant later it was gone, but Robin clung to the feeling.  She was trying.  She wanted to help him.

               He fixed his gaze on her.  _Raven, please.  Please, help._

               A shape loomed up behind her.  Some huge monster, and he wanted to cry out a warning but he couldn’t make a sound.  Raven’s shadow moved.  She flew to her feet.  She’d seen it.

               Robin’s hands shook, and fell limp.

               At least Raven had seen the monster.  She could fight it off.  His friends were safe.

               His foggy gaze rolled back to the demon.

               _I’m going to die here.  Like Jason._

               He had no strength left.  He fell back.

               A white-hot lance cut into his head, burning through the haze of suffocation.

               _Robin, get up!_

               Robin jerked.  That—well, not a _voice_ exactly, but that _feeling_.  A force like a landslide crashing around him.  Like deep, sharp pain suddenly going numb.  He knew that feeling.

               Slade.

               _What are you doing?  Get up and fight!_

               Robin forced one word through his crushed throat.  ‘Can’t.’

               The demon’s fingers tightened.  Spasms running through his body, Robin felt rather than saw the fourth candle finally go out.  He could barely see the demon’s face, and suddenly its eyes were too big and too dark, its mouth too wide.  It wasn’t Slade at all.  Or Bruce, or Jason.  It was something from a nightmare.

               _You didn’t need me to pick you up in that alley._   Slade sounded the way it felt to have a tight hand on your wrist, hauling you up from an abyss.  _You didn’t need me to haul you off that table._

               Strength flowed into Robin.  His muscles strained, and ached, and felt about to burst.  For the first time, he _did_ feel possessed—foreign strength flooding into him, prising his arms off the floor.

               _You already fought him off once, so do it now.  Fight, Robin!_

               Robin gritted his teeth, and clenched his fist—

               And smashed it up into the demon’s nose.

               It could’ve killed a man, a blow like that.  Robin had seen it before, the way the bones crunched up into a man’s brain, and his eyes went instantly glassy.

               But the demon wasn’t a man.

               It fell back, spitting and snarling.  Robin gasped, and leaped to his feet, choking on every desperate breath.  But he was up.  He was up, and the demon was down.

               He reached for that landslide-strength of Slade’s, and it poured into him, seemingly never-ending.  Straightening his back, he planted a kick in the demon’s stomach.  It yowled like a cat.  Beyond the hazy light of the last candle, he could see Raven’s shadow.  She was on her feet, Slade’s larger form beside her.

               He was really here.  He really came.

               Robin turned back to the demon.  ‘I guess you’re as wrong about Slade as everyone else.’

               He dropped to his knees, grabbing the demon’s shoulder.  And it truly was demonic now—a warped, inhuman face, all hatred and malice-black eyes.  Robin took a breath, and felt the dark-velvet touch of Raven’s consciousness; Bruce like cracking ice; Beast Boy like blazing fire; Cyborg’s warmth amidst the hiss of machinery.  And always, Slade, right there.  Watching him.

               This was Raven’s work, and he could feel the sweat running cold down her neck as she struggled to keep them connected—to keep all their energy flowing to Robin.

               Raven would’ve enveloped the demon in black magic.  Buried it deep in its own nightmares.  Torn it to pieces without a touch.

               Robin didn’t have powers.

               He raised his fist.

               The demon changed, so rapid it was like watching a waterfall spill over its face.

               Wide green eyes stared up at Robin.

               ‘Please,’ Starfire whispered.  ‘Robin, I love you.  Do not do this.’

               Robin’s hands shook.  ‘Turn back.’

               ‘Robin …’

               He tightened his grip.  ‘I said turn back!’

               ‘The real Starfire is not coming back for you.’  The demon touched his hand softly.  ‘But I can stay.  You can have her back.  But let me stay.  Please, Robin.’

               He stared, desperately trying to find some flaw in her face, something to prove it wasn’t her.  But there was nothing to find.  She looked and sounded exactly right.  Even the soft warmth of her hand was just as he remembered.

               He go of her, because it was that or give in to the urge to drag her into a hug, and not let go, even when she stabbed him in the back.

               Robin stepped back.  ‘Every day she’s not here, it hurts.’

               ‘I know.’  She leaned in, but he put up a hand to keep her back.

               ‘But Tamaran needs Starfire more than I do.’  He lowered his hand.  ‘And no fake is gonna compare.’  He met her eye, and it was so easy to believe it was really her.  ‘I let you leave, but I never let you go.  I guess now’s about time.’  He straightened.  ‘Time to go.’

               The last candle wavered, and Robin was just selfish enough to keep staring at Starfire’s face, to keep drinking it in, as she slowly vanished into smoke.

               The candle went out.

               For just a second, the room was utterly black.  Then Robin let out a breath, and the yellow-white hospital lights flooded his vision.  Raven stared at him, eyes wide.  He smiled.

               His legs buckled.

               They were only shadows at the edge of his vision, but he got the impression that _both_ Bruce and Slade leaped in to catch him, before he slipped unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest of hugs to my editor Mana, who had the patience of a saint while I struggled and bitched and moaned writing this chapter, only to delete everything and start from scratch. Turned out it was the right choice, because I had so much more fun writing the second time around. Hope you all enjoyed it! x


	32. Chapter 32

He was nose-deep in the latest report from Cyborg when Alfred tapped on the door.  Dick lowered his new communicator, closing it with a soft click.  ‘Come in.’

               Alfred stepped inside, a thin package under one arm.  He glanced at Dick’s communicator.  ‘Ah.  More news from our friends in Jump City?’

               Smiling, Dick set the communicator down.  It was sleek and black, built from the innards of his T-Communicator and parts from Bruce’s old gadgets.  ‘They seem to be handling everything OK without me.’  He wavered.  ‘Although the last video ended with a bang somewhere and Beast Boy yelling to turn the camera off.’

               ‘I’m sure they miss you terribly,’ Alfred said, reading between the lines.  Softly, he added, ‘We certainly did.’

               ‘Well, I’m home now.’  And a warm welcome Gotham had given him: close fog and sheets of ran, lashing at the windows as if it meant to break the glass.  It hadn’t let up for days.  Dick nodded at Alfred’s package.  ‘You know, my birthday was last week.’

               Alfred set the box on Dick’s desk.  ‘The design wasn’t ready last week, Master Dick.’

                 Dick sat up.  ‘My new uniform?’  At Alfred’s smile, he shot to his feet.  ‘It’s finished already?’  Racing over, he tore into the paper, revealing a neatly-folded black uniform.  Dick lifted it, shaking it out to reveal the blue V shape over the chest.  ‘Holy—’ he glanced at Alfred, ‘—uh, wow.’

               ‘Lucius said it was a prototype.’  Alfred smiled.  ‘I’ll pass on your appreciation.’

               ‘I’m gonna try it on.’  Dick was already halfway out of his t-shirt.  Tossing it on the bed, he unzipped his jeans.

               Alfred’s eyes flicked to his chest.  Dick’s stomach lurched, even though Alfred said nothing.

               ‘It was itching with the bandages,’ Dick murmured, wriggling into the new black leggings.  ‘I thought if I gave it some air …’

               He glimpsed in the mirror over his bed, and winced.  The sharp white S was like a beacon against the backdrop of black bruises.  It would pale, over time.  But it would always be there.

               ‘As you say, Master Dick.’  But from the calculating look in Alfred’s eyes, Dick guessed there’d be new burn relief medicine on his bedside table that night.

               Dick pulled on the black top.  The collar came high up over his neck, where his cloak used to sit.  This uniform was heavier than his old one, padded with armour.  He stretched out his arms, tapping the wrist guards, then rolled his shoulders.

               He looked up in the mirror.

               No more bright reds and greens.  No more cloak to hide under.  His jaw was a little wider than he remembered, his shoulders broader.  He looked stronger than he had in weeks.  Maybe ever.

               ‘No one will recognise you,’ Alfred said, a touch sadly.

               Dick scrubbed his fingers against the back of his head, where the recent haircut still felt too short.  ‘I’m too old for “Robin” now anyway.’

               ‘May I ask … ?’

               ‘Nightwing.’  At Alfred’s raised eyebrows, Dick smiled sheepishly.  ‘Starfire’s idea.’

               Alfred was quiet for a moment before admitting, ‘It suits you.’  He sighed.  ‘Although it will be a shame not to have a Robin in the manor.’

               ‘I’m sure another kid will show up, with Sherlock Holmes’s deduction skills.’  Dick smirked.  ‘And the patience of a saint, to put up with Bruce.’

               ‘We may live in hope,’ Alfred said dryly.

               Dick swung his arms, testing the flexibility of his armour.  ‘Tell Lucius thanks from me.  He did good.’  He threw a few jabs in the air, then swept up a kick—and cracked his bare foot into the corner of his desk.

               Alfred was gracious enough not to laugh as Dick howled and collapsed in a heap.  But as he leaned down and offered his hand, Dick could see the barest hint of a smirk.  ‘Perhaps you ought to practise somewhere more spacious.’

               ‘Yeah.’  Dick took Alfred’s hand and got to his feet.  ‘I need some fresh air.’

               ‘And would you look at that?’  Alfred nodded at the window.  ‘It’s stopped raining.  I call that auspicious.’

               ‘I call it Gotham weather,’ Dick muttered, eyeing the watery sunlight now filtering between the grey Gotham clouds.  ‘I’d better enjoy it while I can.’

               As he pulled on his boots, Alfred’s mobile rang.  He gave Dick an apologetic look before answering.  ‘Yes, Master Bruce?’  He hesitated, glancing at Dick as Bruce spoke quickly on the other side.  ‘Yes, sir.  But …’

               ‘Trouble?’ Dick said.

               Alfred lowered the phone, covering the mouthpiece.  ‘Not as such.  Master Bruce has an errand for me.’

               _And it means leaving you alone in the house._

               He didn’t say it, but Robin felt it.  Just as he’d felt Alfred’s quiet presence in the manor, every day since he came home.  Not bothering, or staring, or questioning, but there.

               ‘I’ll be fine,’ Dick said.  ‘Go.’

               Alfred took a deep breath, and raised the phone.  ‘Right away, Master Bruce.’

 

* * *

 

_‘I’m sorry the demon chased me out,’ Raven said, wringing her hands together.  ‘It just surprised me.  With—with—when it lied.’_

_Robin looked up from the bag he was packing.  His room still stank of smoke from the fire he’d set.  ‘It’s OK, Raven.’  It would’ve been so easy to leave it at that—to ignore the close stares from Beast Boy and Cyborg, to change the subject.  But his stomach squirmed and he was sick of lying to them.  Of lying about lies.  ‘But it told the truth.’_

_They were all silent for a moment, and when Robin glanced up again, he could practically watch the colour draining from their faces._

_Then—_

_‘Dude, seriously?’  Beast Boy wrinkled his nose.  ‘That’s like, super gross.’_

_‘Thanks, BB,’ Robin said dryly._

_‘Naw, he’s right,’ Cyborg said.  ‘That is gross.  That is next level, messed up gross.’  He jabbed a finger at Robin.  ‘Remind me never to look at your browser history.’_

_He didn’t sound like he was joking, but Robin laughed._

_And then Raven touched his arm.  ‘You’re not still—you don’t still—?’_

_‘I haven’t seen Slade since the exorcism.  Bruce says he vanished as soon as I came to in the hospital.’  Robin hesitated.  ‘I’m not gonna go looking for him.’_

_‘Good,’ Beast Boy said.  ‘He’s a bad dude.’_

_‘He helped you find me,’ Robin pointed out._

_The others didn’t respond, but from their expressions, he could tell Slade was only half-forgiven at best.  That didn’t matter.  He couldn’t make them change their minds about Slade._

_What mattered was the pain worming deep in his chest, nothing to do with the burn under his bandages, that had suddenly and softly lifted away._

 

* * *

 

Wayne Manor was quiet, the gardens cool, and when Dick had enough of kicking at nothing he got out his batons and ran through a series of moves Bruce had shown him the previous night.  They were snappier than his bo staff, and were starting to feel easy in his hands.

               He slipped his foot back over the damp lawn, and ran through the moves again.  Kick, swing the arm up, duck, block, swing the other arm up—

               A spike went through his chest.

Dick stopped with a hiss.  Panting, he lowered the batons.  Time for a break.

               He wandered over the lawn and sat on the stone bench by the wall.  It was damp, but his new uniform kept the water out.  He plucked up the bottle of water he’d left for himself and took a swig.  Lowering it, he straightened.

               ‘You know,’ he said loudly, ‘Wayne Manor has the best security in the world.  Infra-red cameras, alarms, barbed wire ... I’m pretty sure there’s an actual button to release the hounds.’

The response came from just over his shoulder.  ‘You didn’t expect that to stop me, did you?’

               Dick turned, laughing softly.  ‘I guess not.’

               Slade folded his arms.  Dick had expected the split mask and black uniform—but in jeans and a dark coat, Slade looked a perfect civilian.  No hat, no scarf … nothing hiding his face at all.

               ‘You’re staring,’ Slade said.

               Dick shrugged, spine tingling when Slade met his gaze.  ‘You look different.’

               ‘So do you, Robin.’

               Grinning, Dick stood and stretched out his arms to show the blue V on his chest.  ‘It’s Nightwing now.’

               ‘No cape?’  Slade arched an eyebrow, walking around the bench.  His expression was neutral, but his single eye kept flicking up and down Dick’s body.

               ‘Someone told me to get rid of it.’

               Slade smirked.  He stepped closer, setting his hand on Dick’s chest—on the side the demon _hadn’t_ branded.  He pushed, and Dick stepped back until the back of his knees hit the bench.  The garden was suddenly ten degrees hotter as Slade leaned down and Dick felt the soft touch of facial hair against his chin; the lightness of lips almost on his.  ‘I still prefer your _other_ uniform.’

               ‘Too bad.’  His mouth fluttered over Slade’s, his pulse shooting up.  This close, there was just a trace of something metallic in the smell of him—like the inside of his mask had rubbed off on his skin.  ‘I’m keeping this one.’

               ‘Not if I can get you out of it.’  Slade kissed the corner of Dick’s mouth, and then his jaw, lowering his head to run his tongue along Dick’s throat, right where the collar of his shirt ended.

               Shuddering, Dick pressed closer.  Slade slid a hand down Dick’s chest and grabbed his hip, tight enough to hurt, and dragged him in.  Dick tilted his head, letting out a soft murmur as Slade’s teeth dug into his throat.  Slade’s other hand brushed over his ribs and down, slipping up under his shirt—

               Dick drew back.  ‘We can’t.’

               Slade went still, but he didn’t pull away.  ‘Nobody’s here … Nightwing.’  He said the name slowly, drawing it out against Dick’s throat.  He kissed softly just below Dick’s ear.  ‘They won’t know.’

               For just a moment, Dick felt the ghost of that panic— _They’ll all hate me_ —but it was gone in an instant, like melted ice.

               The Titans didn’t hate him.  Bruce didn't hate him.

               They were mad, sure, and confused as hell.

               But they didn’t hate him.

               ‘I mean not in the garden.’  Dick laid his hands on Slade’s chest.  ‘I wasn’t kidding about the cameras.  Even if you disabled them somehow, I guarantee they’ll be back online any second.  I don’t wanna give Bruce a show.  Or another excuse to hunt you down and kick your ass.’  He hesitated.  ‘I have a bedroom.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a busy night tomorrow, so have this chapter a day early!
> 
> We're getting so close to the end ... I can't believe how fast it's all gone. Thank you, everyone who's commented so far! I can't believe how lovely the AO3 community has been. I really appreciate every word you send me. <3
> 
> Hugs as always to my lovely editor Mana. x


	33. Chapter 33

There were no cameras in the bedrooms.

               Which was good, because the instant Dick closed his bedroom door, Slade turned and pinned him against it.

               Dick hissed as his back slammed against the wood, and Slade immediately covered the sound with his mouth.  His hands slipped down Dick’s arms and circled his wrists, closing tight and lifting his arms up over his head.  Heart racing, Dick pressed closer to the solid warmth of Slade’s body, kissing open-mounted, moaning when Slade’s tongue traced his lower lip.

               Passing both Dick’s wrists into one hand, Slade slid his other hand down between them.  He traced the side of Dick’s face, ran his fingers backward through Dick’s cropped hair, touched his jaw, glanced over Dick’s collar …

               And Dick’s breath stuck.  _Don’t—don’t—_

               Because the scar still hurt, and when it hurt he was back in that room with the fire and the leering, melted face and the touch that felt like oil on his skin—

               But Slade stopped just above the scar.  His eye twitched, and Dick was sure he’d read the panic on his face.  Then Slade’s hand skipped down, not touching the scar, instead tracing Dick’s ribs and settling on his hip, drawing his lower body in.

               Dick let out a breath, tense muscles instantly softening.  He leaned in and kissed Slade hard, arching against his body.  In retaliation, Slade stepped in closer, crushing Dick against the door.  He ground his hips in, and the friction send all the blood in Dick’s body rushing south.  He moaned, dizzy, lowering his head to kiss Slade’s throat, at the edge of his beard.  Slade’s skin was dry, with the faintest taste of salt from sweat, and his beard with wiry-soft against Dick’s cheek.  And god— _god_ he’d missed this.  This heart-racing, legs-trembling, head-spinning rush.

               Slade reached behind Dick, and this time Dick straightened and let him pull his shirt off over his head.

               He’d gained weight.  Three meals a day had that effect.  And living with Bruce Wayne meant that weight was sculpted pretty much instantly into hard muscle.  He felt strong, and _looked_ strong, and this time he didn’t feel the need to cross his arms and cover himself.

               Except …

               _Look, then._   Dick gritted his teeth, holding Slade’s gaze, chin high.  _Get it over with._

               For a moment, Slade held his gaze, as if to prove him wrong.  Then his grey eye finally flicked down to the scar.

               Dick leaned back against the door.  The air felt suddenly too cold on his skin.  Slade stared at the S burnt into his chest, and stared longer, and his brow furrowed and Dick’s stomach tightened because—

               _What if he_ likes _it?_

               It was what Slade always wanted, right?  Robin, Teen Titan, Boy Wonder.

               His.

               Slade trailed a hand over Dick’s arm.  ‘I wanted to kill him for you.’

               Dick jolted.  Then he tensed as Slade’s eye flicked back up.  It was burning cold, like the sting of ice gripped in bare hands.

               Slade closed his hand around Dick’s elbow.  Tight, like he thought Dick might try to run.  ‘I wish I had.’

               ‘You kind of did,’ Dick said.  ‘Showing up at the hospital.’

               Slade’s stare was like a spear, and Dick wished he had Raven’s powers, just for a moment, so he could slip backwards through the solid door.  Out of Slade’s grip and out from under that cold grey eye.  He raised his arm to cover the scar.

               But Slade caught him, and gently pushed it down.  He lowered his head, pressing their foreheads together.  His breath was warm on Dick’s face, and his hands slid up to cradle the back of Dick’s neck.  Warmth spread over Dick’s skin, chasing the goose bumps away.

               ‘Don’t you hide from me,’ Slade murmured.

               In an instant, Dick was back in Slade’s safehouse, trembling all over at the hunger in Slade’s stare.  He shivered as Slade tilted his head, running his tongue over the edge of Dick’s ear.  He bit down on Dick’s earlobe and sparks raced down the base of Dick’s spine.

               Hands on Slade’s hips, Dick drew him closer, aching for more of that friction.  Slade ground forward and every nervous thought, every bad memory, _everything_ flooded out of Dick’s mind in an instant.  Everything except, _More, I want more—_

               He curled his fingers in the belt loops on Slade’s jeans, dragging him closer, closer, arching up at the same time, head spinning.  Slade gripped the back of Dick’s neck hard, his mouth crushing, his kiss all tongue and teeth.  Dick slipped his arms up Slade’s body, palms on his chest.  He grabbed Slade’s shirt in his fists and shoved it up.

               Stepping back, Slade yanked it off over his head and tossed it down with Dick’s new uniform.  Dick kicked off his boots.

               Slade grabbed his wrist hard, as if they were fighting, and shoved him down on the bed.  ‘You’d better hope no one’s home.’  His belt clinked as he loosed it.  ‘Because I want to hear you scream.’

               Dick smirked.  His heartbeat felt like an earthquake in his chest.  ‘Make me.’

               Raising his brow, Slade kicked his jeans to the floor.

               _No underwear._   A shiver raced over Dick’s skin.

               Reaching over, Slade grabbed Dick by the ankle and dragged him closer.  He set his hands either side of Dick’s shoulders.  ‘You’re going to regret that.’

               He set his hand on Dick’s knee, sliding his palm up the inside of his thigh.  Dick flinched as he brushed the mostly-healed bullet wound—not as gently as he could have—and then he slumped when Slade pressed his hand between his legs.

               ‘Nnnh …’  Dick tilted his head, blood rushing in his ears, tension melting from his body.  Slade moved his palm, just a little too slow to be satisfying, his touch just barely firm enough to be more than a tease.  The new uniform was suddenly way too tight.  But it felt _good_ , in a close, too-warm kind of way.  Dick hooked his heel up on the edge of the bed, rocking his hips.  _Faster._

               Tightness built in Dick’s stomach, and he hissed and tensed—

               And Slade drew his hand away.

               Dick groaned, slipping his own hand down his body.

               Slade caught his wrist.  ‘No you don’t.  You haven’t screamed yet.’

               Ignoring the jolt that went straight through his cock, Dick glared.  ‘Maybe I was about to.’

               Smirking, Slade leaned in.  Dick shifted back, finding better purchase in the middle of the bed, and Slade followed him.  He sat over Dick’s waist, as if about to pin him.  But Dick was fast, and had space to shimmy down, and wrap his mouth around Slade’s cock.

               Slade made a sharp, breathless, cut-off noise, and Dick opened his mouth wide and slipped his tongue out.  Slade’s hand crept into his hair, his fingers curling, trying to grip hair cut too short.  Dick felt shivers run down Slade’s legs as he bobbed his head.  A salt-slick taste hit the back of his tongue and he opened his mouth wider, jaw aching, and let Slade draw him forward, forward, forward, until his cock brushed the back of Dick’s throat and slid _down_.  Dick’s eyes watered and he couldn’t breathe.  But above him Slade groaned and—

               _Fuck._   Dick drew back, just enough to gulp air, and then pressed forward again.  _Fuck, yes._   Slade groaned again, low and primal, fucking slowly into Dick’s throat.

               Gripping Slade’s thighs in both his hands, Dick shuddered and drew back and pressed forward, and moaned and whimpered and didn’t give a fuck how he sounded, because Slade sounded so damn _good_.  His dick ached, but when he tried to slip his hand under Slade’s legs, Slade caught them and held them down.

               ‘Not yet.’  He dropped his hips until Dick’s head whirled from lack of air.  ‘Not until I say.’

               The noise Dick made when Slade drew back was shameful—long and needy and desperate.  He forgot.  A few weeks and he forgot this was addictive.  Forgot how hard Slade brought his inhibitions crashing down.

               He tilted his head to the side, gasping.  ‘Condoms—in the drawer—fuck me.’

               The way the room was spinning around him, he was impressed he got out that much.  Slade shifted off him, then before Dick could sit up Slade bent down, and didn’t so much kiss his throat as bite it.  And for a moment, Dick kicked and whimpered and so, _so_ nearly came out of sheer _want_.

               Then Slade peeled back, and reached for the drawer.

               Dick pushed himself up, letting his head thud back against the pillows.  He reached down to curl his hand around Slade’s cock, still wet from his mouth.  Slade ripped the condom open, then pushed Dick’s hand away to roll it on.

               ‘There’s lube—’

               But then Slade curled his hand around Dick’s cock, warm and moving, and Dick closed his eyes and sank into the pillow.  Stars sparked and burned and faded behind his eyelids.  When Slade’s other hand, cool and wet with lube, slipped down to his ass, Dick spread his knees and didn’t bother to hold back the moan.  He raised his hips as Slade’s fingers pushed in, slow and easy.  Then faster.  Deeper.  Pressure built at the base of his spine, like a coiled knot, and Dick’s legs trembled.

               ‘Shaking already?’ Slade murmured.

               Dick laughed, breathy and strained, because the hell what Slade said.  _No one_ could keep this up for long, not with the heat the sparks and the head-spinning—

               Slade drew his fingers out, and Dick took a breath as something larger pressed against him.

               A light touch on his elbow.  ‘Look at me.’

               Dick opened his eyes and met Slade’s gaze.  He let out his breath, slow and even, as Slade pressed in.

               Everything blurred.  One moment he was breathing slowly, groaning at the pressure, and the next Slade’s forehead was pressed to his shoulder, and Slade’s hands were locked around his upper arms, and Slade was moving, and Dick was yelling, hoarse and desperate, rocking up into the heat.

               Every inch Slade gave, he gave back.  Moving fast.  Gasping for breath.  He dug his blunt nails into Slade’s legs and cried out when Slade dug his teeth into his shoulder.  Dick’s breath was thick with the smell of sweat and sex, and he was full and hot and trembling.

               He looped his leg around Slade’s and shoved—and either Slade was caught by surprise or he just let Dick flip him over.  Dick curled over him, pressing Slade into the mattress, riding him fast.  When Slade groaned it was like an electric shock down his spine.

               Slade curled his hand loosely around Dick’s cock, and in only a few strikes Dick’s vision went blinding white as he came.

               Fingers curling behind Dick’s neck, Slade dragged him into a kiss.  Dick whimpered against his mouth, Slade’s other hand still drawing him through razor-sharp aftershocks as he fucked him, fast and unrelenting.  Each snap of his hips sent another solar flare up into Dick’s body, burning hot and near-painful, and just as Dick thought he couldn’t stand another moment Slade snarled, grabbing Dick’s hips in both hands to drag him down, _down_ , as he came.

               Dick’s arms shook, and he managed to stay upright for another second as Slade drew back, before flopping bonelessly on his side.

               The room was warm and soft, and he closed his eyes and let his breath slow, and waited for the bed to shift under him when Slade got up to get dressed.  But the bed was still.  Slade wasn’t moving.  Dick opened his eyes blearily and found Slade still lying there, staring at him.

               Dick frowned.  ‘What?’

               For a moment, Slade seemed to be waiting.  Then he reached over and kissed him—first on the mouth, then more gently on the forehead, beard brushing Dick’s brow.

               Pulling back, he finally sat up, stepping off the bed and tossing the condom in the wastepaper basket under Dick’s desk.  ‘Shower?’

               ‘Nearest one’s two doors down.’  _What was that about?_

               He waited until he heard the hum of the shower down the hall before getting up, grabbing the jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing that morning.  He snuck to the en suite in Bruce’s room—another place he was pretty sure there weren’t any cameras—and washed and dressed quickly before padding back to his room.

               Slade was already there, dressed and leaning on the doorframe, adjusting his shirtsleeve.  ‘Are you ready?’

               Dick hesitated.  ‘Ready?’

               Slade’s smile was thin and sardonic.  ‘I’m not going to Blüdhaven alone.’

               Cold settled over Dick.  But he forced himself to breathe, and only step back a little.  ‘I’m not going to Blüdhaven.’

               As Slade narrowed his eye, Dick forced himself to hold his ground.

               ‘I need—’  He stopped.  ‘I _want_ to stay in Gotham.’

               Slade folded his arms.  ‘With the bat.’

               Dick shrugged.  ‘For now.’  He hesitated and—god, the urge to take it back.  To dart in his room and grab a bag and start tossing things in.  To spend the rest of his life doing what he wanted, just because he could.  Because it didn’t hurt.

               But …

               He swallowed.  ‘I won’t be your apprentice.’

               Slade’s frown deepened into a scowl.

               ‘I know that’s all you really want,’ Dick said.  ‘I won’t do it.  And we can’t keep … _this_ —’ he waved his hands between the two of them, ‘—up from opposite sides.’

               For a stomach-tightening minute, Slade remained silent.  Then he unfolded his arms with a sigh.  He stepped in, and Dick stood his ground, and Slade traced his fingers under his jaw.  ‘I want _you_ —’ he hesitated, just a beat, ‘—Nightwing.  Any way I can have you.’  His hand slipped down to rest at the curve where Dick’s neck met his shoulder.

               Dick leaned into him, smirking.  ‘You could join the Justice League.’

               ‘I’m sure they’d welcome me with open arms.’

               He set his mouth against Dick’s forehead, drawing a long breath over his hair.  His hand slipped down, fingers closing around Dick’s arm—

               _This is it._   Dick swallowed.  This was where Slade didn’t let go.  Where he dragged Dick away; threatened him; blackmailed him; hurt him.  Just like before.  This was where he reminded Dick exactly what he’d fallen in with.  A selfish, manipulative, remorseless villain.  Where he proved Bruce right.

_Any way I can have you._

               Slade loosened his grip.  He stepped back.  ‘Until you change your mind, then.’

               Dick stared.  _What?_   But Slade just held his gaze, and didn’t lunge in to attack—and slowly, Dick let out his breath.  He smiled.  ‘Or until you change yours.’

               Smirking, Slade inclined his head, and a moment later he’d slipped downstairs and out the door.

 

* * *

 

Dick returned to his room half-dazed.  He folded his Nightwing suit on the desk, then moved to the window.  Slade was long gone, and the grounds around Wayne Manor were quiet again.

               He stripped the bedsheets and tossed them in the wash with a few white t-shirts and socks.  Then he slipped down to the Batcave, logged in to the security cameras and cut out the last hour, replacing it with generic footage from a few days before.  To make sure Slade’s visit was completely erased.

               He’d tell Bruce that Slade came back for him, sometime.  Just not right now.

               By the time the car rumbled to the gates, Dick was sat at his laptop, watching a loading bar creep across the screen as he sent a video back to Titan’s Tower.  He’d talked randomly, mentioning everything from the dizzyingly expensive therapy Alfred insisted he attend to the new suit he’d be wearing next time he saw his friends.

               Dick stood and went to the door to welcome Alfred and Bruce home.  The gates were just rolling back to admit them, and he smiled and waved.

               Down the hill, mist crept in between the gravestones dotting the cemetery.  He could pick out the graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne by heart, tall and white high up on the hill.  And just beside them, he almost imagined he could see the warm red glow of the gemstone guarding Jason.

               Dick gave him a faint smile, and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, I couldn't possibly end the fic without more smut. :p
> 
> Thank you all the lovely people who've read and commented. You're all wonderful and you've made me grin, cackle and generally love every moment. I can't wait to write new stuff for you guys ... maybe even a sequel? (She says, oh so tentatively.)
> 
> I had meant to end the fic completely here, but since reading back through and editing ... I have one more teensy bonus chapter left to post up on Thursday. :)
> 
> As always, the biggest squishiest hugs go to my editor, Mana. x


	34. Chapter 34

The bell rang over the door as Dick pushed inside.  Behind him, Jason scuffed his boots, hunching down in his hoodie.

               The floor was old black and white tile, the walls covered in neon lights advertising milkshakes and fries.  A genuine 1960s jukebox crackled in the corner, sounding one song away from wailing its last note.

               ‘Tacky,’ Jason scoffed.

               ‘Shut up,’ Dick said cheerfully.  He waved at the waitress behind the bar.  ‘Hey, Barb!  How’s the weekend gig going?’

               Barbara looked up from the glass she was polishing and grinned.  ‘Dick!’  She took a step, wobbled, and grabbed the counter for balance.  ‘Oops!’  She gave him an apologetic grimace.  ‘Not used to the roller skates yet.’  Pushing her red hair back, she released the counter and tried again, this time gliding gracefully out into the aisle.  She struck a pose, arm stretched up over her head.  ‘Ta da!’

               Dick grinned.  ‘Nice uniform.’

               She snorted, brushing down her stiff white pinafore.  ‘It’s totally lame, but it pays well and I get the _best_ tips.  So,’ she leaned on the counter, ‘what can I get for the richest kid in school?’

               Jason snorted.  ‘When you’re done flirting, I’ll be over there.’  He jabbed a thumb at the table by the window, then stalked over and flopped down at it.

               Watching him go, Barbara raised an eyebrow.  ‘ _That’s_ your brother?’

               A shrug.  ‘He’s had a bad day.’

               He joined Jason a moment later, taking the seat opposite him and stretching his legs out.

               ‘Your girlfriend’s pretty graceless,’ Jason said.

               Dick laughed.  ‘Barb’s not my girlfriend.  And you should watch what you say.  Once at school I saw her kick a guy so hard his teeth fell out.’

               Jason raised his eyebrows, glancing over Dick’s shoulder with apparently improved respect.  ‘Huh.’

               ‘I ordered for you,’ Dick added.  ‘I hope you like spicy food.’

               Leaning back in his chair, Jason shrugged.  ‘Whatever.’

               But Dick could see the challenge gleaming in his eye, and he grinned.  ‘I only ordered moderate, so if you want it hotter …’

               Jason’s eyes narrowed, and he sat up straight as Barbara wheeled over, a milkshake in each hand.

               ‘Two strawberry milkshakes.  Volcano burgers are on their way.  Anything else I can get you?’

               Jason kept his eyes on Dick, glaring.  ‘Yeah.  Got any hot sauce?  Like, _real_ hot sauce?’

               ‘Uh.’  Barbara glanced at Dick.  ‘Sure, but …’

               Dick grinned up at her.  ‘Hot sauce would be great, thanks Barb.’

               She caught the look in his eye and skated away, rolling her eyes and muttering something that sounded remarkably like, ‘ _Boys …_ ’

               The hot sauce came with the burgers.  Jason snatched it up, opened his burger, and tipped half the bottle over it.  Slamming the bottle on the table, he slid it over to Dick.  ‘Well, circus freak?  Wanna show me what you’re made of?’

Grinning, Dick grabbed the bottle and upended it over his fries.  ‘You’re on, Todd.  First one to cry loses.’

               Three fries down he was losing.  Barbara hadn’t been messing around with the hot sauce—this was the good stuff, the type that cleared your sinuses with one drop.  His nose was streaming, his eyes watering.  But more importantly, Jason was scarlet in the face, doubled over and wheezing.

               ‘Are you laughing or choking?’ Dick said, taking another bite and trying not to wince at the burn.

               ‘Laughing—’ Jason gasped, ‘—at your—stupid face.’

               Dick snorted.  And then instantly regretted it when the hot sauce travelled up his nose and burned right behind his eyes.  He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as tears crept over his eyelashes.  ‘Argh!’

               Even if Jason wasn’t laughing before, he started then.  Dick hadn’t seen Jason smile before.  Those sarcastic, superior little smirks didn’t count.  Now this—this was an actual _smile._ He grinned, ate another scalding-hot French fry, and graciously didn’t mention the tears streaming now down Jason’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ... the end.
> 
> Big and squishy hugs to everyone who has read and commented, or who might read and comment in the future. When I started this, I really never expected it to reach more than five people. You're all sweet and awesome, and I can't wait to keep writing new things for you!
> 
> The biggest and squishiest hugs, of course, go to my editor Mana. You didn't ship Sladin when we met, so thanks for letting me drag you down the sin pit with me. x


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